


Don't Even Bother

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 100 things: random prompt ficlets, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angsty Schmoop, Belly Fucking, Body Image, Chubby Castiel, Chubby Dean Winchester, Community: chubwinchesters, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Community: hc_bingo, Community: homebrewbingo, Community: kink_bingo, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom!Castiel, Dom/sub, Dysphoria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fat Character, Feeding, Feedism, Gender Roles, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Dean Winchester, Grinding, Kink Without Plot, Other, Painplay, Rough Body Play, Roughhousing, Rule 63, Shaving, Social Roles, Sub!Dean, Weight Gain, chubby!kink, fat appreciation, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>most days? Dean can start leaking in his satiny panties, just from the thought of gaining more weight, just from looking at old Facebook photos and thinking of how much bigger he is now. But most days don't involve anything that's happened so far today.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts, "torture" (at hc_bingo), and "soul mates" (at chubwinchesters, for the 2012 summer bingo).

As Dean slumps into his headboard, unwraps today's third bar of Cadbury's chocolate, and chomps down on it, he can't help the hot, guilty twisting feeling that he gets in the pit of his enormous stomach. He flushes pink and curls his legs up as close to his soft belly and chest as possible, which isn't that close at all. Mostly, he just ends up grinding his thighs into each other. Which, in turn, makes his cheeks get hotter, even though Cas is the only person in Dean's room with him, even though they're the only two people in the house right now, and Cas would never judge him for eating or for the fact that he's not a twig or for anything, because Cas is the best boyfriend ever and doesn't care how fat Dean's gotten since they started dating.

Thing is: it's not about whether or not Cas would judge Dean. He'd feel guilty as fuck if he were eating on his own. This would be true any other day—he can hardly eat anything, even healthy stuff, without his insides twisting themselves up in knots over how much Dean loves tasting food and smelling food and feeling food's different textures in his mouth—and it's a whole complicated cluster of nerves and desires. Dean might even feel worse, eating on his own, because he wouldn't feel the need to stifle the moans he makes while stuffing his face. Because most days? Dean can start leaking in his satiny panties, just from the thought of gaining more weight, just from looking at old Facebook photos and thinking of how much bigger he is now. But most days don't involve anything that's happened so far today.

Most days don't involve seeing a number he didn't expect on his doctor's scale, writhing on the inside as Doctor Robert's nurse practitioner takes his measurements, getting poked and prodded like a science project, or having to listen to a whole dressing-down about his weight from someone who, unlike Cas when they get roleplaying, means every single fucking thing he says about how fat and in need of a diet Dean is. Most days don't involve wanting to yell at some poor woman about how yeah, fuck you, he _knows_ his hips are so much bigger than his waist and this isn't the build most guys have, but Dean _likes it that way_. Worst of all, most days don't involve having to quietly admit to himself—without putting down his Cadbury's—that the medical people probably have a point.

About the last thing that Dean should be doing right now is eating, and about the last thing he should be eating is anything he actually enjoys—especially not any chocolate. There are options that would be worse for him—ice cream comes to mind, as do Mom's pie and Cas's double-fudge chocolate chip brownies—but Dean can only worry about the one that he keeps cramming in his mouth. Because his blush and his guilt are entirely about Dean, and his weight (his apparently still- _increasing_ weight), and his own goddamn choices (especially in the past three years of college at Edlund-U and the past two-and-a-half of dating Cas), and the countless effects they've had on his body. The stretch-marks, the blood pressure—and, of course, the biggest one of all: exactly how much weight Dean's packed onto his six-foot-one frame.

For all the thought makes his skin crawl, makes him wriggle and feel his panties' waistband digging harder into his side, being bigger than doctors say he should be is nothing new for Dean—not really, anyway. He takes after Dad's side of the family—and no matter how much Dad wanted a little soldier or a little baseball player, the only person he's related to who isn't at least a little bit chubby? Is Aunt Cassandra's girlfriend. When Dean went out east for his and Cas's freshman year, he was pretty solidly overweight, usually hovering somewhere in the lower two-hundreds. The number on his annual physical from that year was two-ten and Dean caught enough shit from Dad and Doctor Robert over that and over watching out for the Freshman Fifteen. He'd put on the Freshman Twenty by the time Cas asked him out and the Freshman Forty by summer. He's only put on more since confessing to his boyfriend that two-fifty wasn't enough for him, he wanted to be even bigger.

Dean tries to ease his mind by looking over to the closet, to the full-length mirror he has hanging inside the door and, more specifically, to Cas and how he's still inspecting his reflection. As though he has any need to do so when he's the hottest person in a ten-mile radius. Maybe not by too many people's standards, but that's because most people are stupid and can't appreciate Cas's beauty. They get hung up on his full, plushy hips. How his chunky ass and thighs strain against his jeans. How his seams look ready to burst even though his pants have spandex woven in and are designed to have a little extra give. How his belly and sides spill out over his waistband. And how even scrunching up his face and resolutely tugging on his t-shirt can't make it stay put, stop riding up, and cover the stripe of flesh that it's exposing.

People can't look past his double-chin and cherubic cheeks to see the spark in his bright blue eyes or how hot his hair looks when it's all artfully mussed up. Well, they could, but they never do. And as for his damn personality and how awesome he is? Most people would never notice, much less care. Because Cas is kind of chubby instead of skinny like Jimmy and Jacob, his triplet brothers, or like Anna, their older sister—and that's just so _awful_. And so fucking _wrong_. How _dare_ Cas have any confidence when he doesn't fit into the box of arbitrary societal beauty standards. How dare he start out a relationship a little soft around the edges and not give a damn when he puts on weight along with Dean. How dare he not care at all that his jeans are so tight on him—though, in fairness, Dean's probably just noticing it more because Cas has mostly been living in pajamas and sweatpants since they got out of school in May.

Dean's pretty well past being able to use the, "kind of chubby" excuse, himself. He's not chubby, or tubby, or chunky, or anything else; he's just fat. His weight says so, his measurements say so, his feelings all say so… He's felt _fat_ since he clocked in at two-seventy-five at the start of last summer. And as for now? Now, even knowing exactly how fat he is can't shame Dean out of licking the last bits of chocolate off his fingers and grabbing another bar of chocolate off his bedside table, tearing into it despite his huge lunch and how hot his face feels. He wonders if anyone would judge him so much, if they just knew why being fat is so important to him—but Dean can't even tell Cas that secret. Maybe he could, but he's never tried. He's not even talking at Cas right now, but if he were, he wouldn't try to broach the subject. There's just no good way to handle it.

How the Hell is Dean supposed to explain that he loves his pear-shaped body because his hips and ass and boobs all feel so _right_ in the same way that his collection of ladies' underwear feels so _right_ , even the pairs that he's outgrown? That Dean never wants to get skinny, or even drop the sixty pounds Doctor Robert thinks would be a huge help to him, because he looks so fucking masculine when his weight gets under two-fifty, two-sixty? That it's not even humiliating when Cas takes control of things, goes into power-dom mode, and starts calling Dean his bitch—it's just the closest that anybody ever gets to seeing how he feels inside, acknowledging that he might not really be a guy?

He doesn't want to commit to anything yet—not when he isn't sure of jack with a side of squat, outside of his weight and how he should dislike it but just can't—but Dean's never felt like a guy. He can't remember _ever_ feeling like a guy. He's not sure he feels like a girl, either, but he likes parts of both worlds, for all he doesn't have the words to really talk about how he feels. For all he's sure that he wouldn't understand any of them either, since sure, Dean's a geek, but he never feels as smart as Cas thinks he is.

All Dean really knows for certain is that he hates his body when it looks any kind of masculine, and that he can never lose enough weight to look androgynously thin. Diets always fail because Dean always breaks them. He likes food too much and he hates how hungry _all the time_ he has to feel just to keep his weight at one-seventy, the way it was when he was still on Lawrence High's varsity track team. Before senior year, before breaking his leg and putting on his first twenty pounds, then another twenty before college even started.

And the first time Dean noticed that he puts on more weight in his hips and ass than anywhere else? All bets were off. He knew what he wanted.

Dean sighs, kneading his free hand into his belly. The only thing that gets him out of his head is the way his old bed creaks as Cas flops down onto it—and considering there's at least five-hundred and sixty pounds on it, between the two of them, Dean's not entirely sure he blames the thing. At the thought there might be even more weight on the mattress—at remembering how Cas hasn't weighed himself (as far as Dean knows) since before finals, when he clocked in at two-thirty-four, how those jeans are looking more than a little snug and they fit him so much better then (were even somewhat loose)—Dean has to grab a handful of his own fat, sink his fingers into the fleshy roll of his own belly, just to keep from groping Cas instead.

Which Cas doesn't exactly help by leaning into Dean's side, knocking his pudgy side into Dean's and resting his head on Dean's shoulder. Being infinitely patient as Dean adjusts his legs, stretches them back down onto the mattress and lets his gut flop back into his lap. Dean frowns down at it for a moment, at the way it curves out, then dips around his belly button and billows back out into a soft, flabby hang—but at least the grimacing doesn't last that long. Because Cas doesn't have the same hang-up about keeping his hands to himself, and no matter what's going on in Dean's head right now, it always feels good when Cas grabs at his belly-fat, gets a handful of his sag and just _squeezes_ it.

A stray glance down at their laps shows that Cas's belly is really, properly pooling onto his lap, sitting there and covering up his crotch—which Dean's pretty sure is new. Since he's put on just under thirty pounds since May, Dean would bet almost anything that this summer's added at least ten, fifteen pounds to Cas's frame. Maybe even twenty. And he's sorely tempted to ask about it, but Cas beats him to the punch: "I was waiting for you to bring it up on your own," he says, "and since you haven't, I can only conclude that your appointment with Doctor Robert went other than well. Would you like to talk about it?"

Dean shrugs and shifts his free arm, wrapping it around Cas's shoulders because fuck all of the people who aren't actually here. This is his Prince Caspian Novak; they can all go find their own—or go jerk off to how much smaller than Cas his brothers are, not that Dean would know anything about that. Not that he's ever gotten himself off to any of the photos of Jimmy, Cas, and Jacob from last summer's trip up to Anna's girlfriend's parents' cabin in Michigan. Especially not the one from right after Cas tipped the scales at two-oh-five. The one where the skinny assholes are covered up in baggy trunks and t-shirts while Cas is topless, wearing a pair of short-shorts that might as well be painted on, letting his soft hips and his plump thighs and his soft, muffin-topping tummy show for the whole world to see, and he's so much bigger than his brothers even though they all look exactly the same in every other way…

"I dunno…" Dean mutters, blushing as he notices Cas nuzzling at his double-chin and how long he's zoned out. Not to mention how his dick needs thoughts of crabby old nuns to stop it straining against Dean's panties. "I mean… It really wasn't anything to write home about, you know? Nothing I didn't really expect, anyway. I'm bigger than I was last year by kind of a lot, and everybody at the office disapproves and thinks it's just awful, don't I know what I'm doing to myself—you know, like I've totally missed the part where I've gotten huge—"

"I wouldn't quite say _huge_ ," Cas says, curling further into Dean's side, dropping his hand down to Dean's stomach and rubbing it around in gentle circles, gently nudging Dean's t-shirt up and sneaking a pinch of Dean's fat. Ignoring how it's getting harder for him to wrap his arms around Dean. He's probably smiling in that way he does, the one that makes him look like a contented cat stretching out in a sunbeam. And he whispers up against the skin of Dean's chin, "You're certainly fat, and I have no doubts that we could _get_ you huge, if you desired it… but I don't think that you're huge, at the present moment."

"I clocked in at three-twenty-six today, Cas," Dean tells him with a huff. He's not really _exasperated_ or anything; it's just that he's still trying to get his head around this. Back in May, when school got out, Dean had held steady at two-ninety-eight for about five weeks. "Got to hear the whole spiel about letting myself go, and how fifty-ish pounds in a year is kind of a lot, and I should really try to drop some weight. And then Nurse McClellan did measurements too—"

Dean pauses, blinking down at Cas. Snickering at how Cas perks right up, just hearing a mention of measurements. Exact numbers have been one of his most favorite things about this stuff since he and Dean started trying to get Dean fatter. God, his boyfriend is such a kinky open book, sometimes. "Yeah, I know, and uh… Sixty-ish inches on the waist—kind of sixty-and-a-half? And seventy-two inches on the hips?"

Cas shifts against Dean, half-grinding into his side, and makes a soft little moaning noise like he's starring in a bad porno—and Dean can't really blame him. Not when his own dick's twitching at just remembering the numbers for himself. Quietly, Cas kisses along Dean's chin and jawline, and Dean's not sure if he should interrupt and say something—but again, Cas gets there first:

"Do you still have the tape measure in your desk?" he says, nudging his nose along Dean's cheek. "Even my bigger clothes have felt so tight on me, lately… I think that I might need to go shopping before September arrives—and before we see Jimmy and Jacob up at Ruby's next week… I believe I'm much heavier than I was when I saw them last, and I would like to know exactly how much bigger I am, since they'll almost certainly ask…"

None of that's any kind of surprising—in fact, Dean has to chuckle at how Cas is either teasing him or seriously oblivious to both his weight and to other people's reactions. Even more so than Dean already knows him to be. He'd have to be oblivious if he's honestly missed how snug his clothes have gotten. Either way, that doesn't matter as much as it matters that Cas gives Dean that _oh-so-innocent_ smile and asks if doing a weigh-in and taking his measurements would make Dean feel any better about his questionable day.

There's only one thing Dean can say to that offer, and it's pretty fucking simple: "Oh my _God_ , yes."

  
*******   


They relocate to the bathroom in almost perfect silence, only pausing so Dean can rescue the tape measure and their battered Secret Notebook from one of the upper drawers of his desk. And so Dean can cop a feel of Cas's perfect ass, besides. Once they're there, Dean flops down on the toilet, watches Cas getting ready. It's something to do with his OCD, the way he's so picky about how they do things—but whatever's the cause, Cas first has to wash his face. Next, he shimmies out of his jeans, and that much makes sense, even when they aren't going to weigh him first. They never start a session, even one of Dean's, by weighing someone—apparently, it's bad luck.

Or so says Cas's OCD, anyway, and Dean really doesn't care enough to argue with it. Not when Cas insists on jumping and wriggling so much while trying to get out of his pants. Dean inhales sharply, watching Cas's belly and his sides jiggle so nicely, only barely managing to keep his dick in line. It twitches against his panties, sure, but it doesn't get hard. At this closer distance, Dean can see that what he thought was Cas's muffin-top only counts as such on his sides. They're definitely spilling over his waistband, but Cas's stomach is a different matter entirely. He didn't even try to fit his belly into his jeans—and with good reason, too, since it'd probably snap the button off as soon as he tried to breathe. Which would be super hot, but would no doubt get Cas stared at a bit—especially if it happened over dinner with Mom, Dad, and Sam.

Even without factoring Cas's gut into things, though, Dean has to wonder how Cas even got these things up his thighs and over his chunky ass, much less buttoned. The red marks they left on Cas's skin are deep and angry, and from the looks of it, Cas is having a similar time of things with his sinfully, suffocatingly skin-tight boxer-briefs. Leaving his jeans in a heap on the floor, he moves over to Dean and stands between his legs. Takes a deep breath, sighs and says he's ready whenever Dean is. And Dean supposes that he's ready, but first, he really, _really_ needs to just brush his fingers over the red marks from where Cas's pants cut into his flesh—and to tut-tut at Cas over it. He means to say something like Cas would say in his position—something roleplaying-flavored and humiliating about how big and chubby he's gotten—but it just comes out as worrying over whether or not Cas has been hurting himself like this, wearing clothes that are _this tight_ on him.

In response to Dean's perfectly valid thank you very much concerns, Cas shrugs, looks pensive and a bit day-dreamy. "I really didn't notice all that much, though?" he says. "Aside from them being just difficult enough for me to find it hot, which was more than a little distracting?"

Dean rolls his eyes, and shakes his head, and mostly only supposes that Cas has a point because a distraction of his own is right here, all up in Dean's face. Namely: Cas's body. Specifically: Cas's soft, pudgy stomach and his sides and how much bigger they look from this angle, with Cas so close and standing around in his underwear. Cas's belly is even starting to sag somewhat, with its pale underside flopping over the waistband of Cas's shorts. Dean's not sure if he's imagining things or if that t-shirt's really exposing more of Cas's flesh—but he can see the deep hollow of Cas's belly button underneath the fabric, and a hint of its bottom edge peeking out under the hem.

Besides, all that really matters is how good Cas looks. How plump and sexy, and Christ, Dean could just fuck him right here and now—but for now, he settles for unfurling the tape measure and wrapping it around Cas's waist. Blinking at the number he comes up with and saying nothing until Cas asks after it.

"Fifty-two-ish," Dean reports, and immediately clarifies: "That is, uh. You're up to a little bit over fifty-two inches—I'd say maybe… fifty-two-and-a-quarter?" He doesn't need Cas to tell him to take down fifty-two-and-a-quarter, then. Not least since Dean doesn't bother pausing to write anything down before he loosens the tape and shifts it down to Cas's hips. Whistles, impressed with the result, and says, "And you're clocking in at sixty-three inches down here, Gorgeous."

Dean grins up at Cas, but it only lasts for a moment. The celebratory expression soon fades into a furrowed brow and blinking. Mostly because Cas's face is bright fucking pink and he's staring intently at his tummy, rubbing his hands over it and his hips, looking positively bashful. He explains before Dean can even ask what's up: "Oh, I'm pleased with this, of course I am or I would have stopped—and I _knew_ that I've gotten bigger this summer, but… well. It seems a bit much, doesn't it? Certainly more than I expected to have gained, in both departments—and considering I was barely one-seventy when we started this…"

Dean wants to scoff and tell Cas that he's being silly—but he has to whistle again when he flips the notebook open to Cas's chart of weight and measurements. He stares at the last record for a moment, down at Cas's tiny, immaculate handwriting and the figures from the last time they sat down to do this— _weight: 234; waist: 46"; hips: 52"_ —but he's grinning again as he turns his gaze back up to Cas. "Eleven inches on the hips and almost six-and-a-half on the waist, huh?" he says, waggling his eyebrows. "How's it feel, Sexy?"

"Interesting, I guess?" Cas says as though there's a right answer to that question and he's afraid of being wrong. Sighing, he shuffles a few steps back from Dean, turns around to face the scale that sits opposite them, over underneath the towel rack. "Now that I'm fully aware of it, it's… different, I suppose? I certainly _feel_ bigger, but it's nice enough. I believe that I'll enjoy it more once I'm actually _used_ to it, but in the meantime, it's more a great deal to process than anything else."

And Cas has a point, Dean knows that much from having been in the same place that he is. Hell, it was hard enough for him to wrap his mind around needing to get a new scale once he finally hit three-hundred—the point at which the one Dad bought Dean before freshman year maxed out. Dean hasn't checked his weight on this new one since he clocked in at three-oh-five, but it's got a digital read-out and it goes all the way up to six-hundred pounds—and Cas hesitates a moment before it. Stares down at it while Dean heaves himself back up, and holds his breath as he finally steps on. As he lets his stomach fall back into its full glory, Cas closes his eyes and asks, in a quiet voice, for Dean to check it for him. Because he's nervous and just… please do this for him, Dean? Please?

Peering around Cas's side, Dean rolls his eyes affectionately and tells Cas to suck in a bit, so he can see. At the sight of the bright red numbers, Dean whistles again, and says (through a warm round of snickering), "You… Wow, that's just… That's kind of a lot, yeah, I mean… Well, Prince Caspian, final verdict is that you weigh two-hundred and sixty-six pounds. So, uh. I'm thinking that you're definitely gonna need to go shopping soon, huh?"

Cas blushes bright red, and with a smirk, Dean kisses the apple of his cheek, gently nips at it. He backs up again, if only so he can grope at Cas's ass, and when he returns, Dean presses gently into Cas's back, wraps his arms around Cas's waist and cops a feel of Cas's soft, pliant flesh. He stands there, quietly rubbing Cas's belly for a while, feeling around for any new stretch marks, hoping that this contact makes Cas feel slightly more at ease with everything—but strictly speaking? Dean can't really blame his boy for feeling awkward about it. Thirty-two pounds is a lot to put on—never mind doing it in about eleven weeks, and further never mind how it's twice what Dean thought Cas put on. And further further never mind how much they weigh, combined.

"Jimmy and Jacob are going to _torture_ me," Cas says with an exasperated sigh, laying his hands over top of Dean's, slumping back into Dean's chest ever-so-slightly. He drops his head back onto Dean's shoulder and makes a noise somewhere halfway between whining and whimpering. "I believe that I've put on forty pounds since spring break in London, and I haven't put new photos on Facebook or anything… Even Mother and Father have seen me at a higher weight than Jimmy and Jacob have, and just… They are going to be _terrible_."

"Depends on where you're counting from, but it's still underestimating by a bit," Dean murmurs, kissing Cas's jaw—which is definitely softer underneath his lips, and Dean can't believe he didn't really notice it until now. "'cause you've actually put on forty- _five_ pounds since you left for London. And forty-two since you got back. And if either of them have anything bad to say about it, I'm twice their size and I don't really care if I get in trouble for punching them or not."

And as he's dragging his teeth along some of the pudge along Cas's jawline, Dean has a thought. "Y'know," he says, breathing against Cas's warm, soft skin. "We're not that far off from weighing six-hundred pounds, total? Between the two of us, I mean? So we'd only have to put on four each to max out this thing—" He nudges his foot at the scale, just by way of emphasizing his point. "I bet you we could do that by the time we have to leave for school."

Cas chuckles softly, and nuzzles at Dean's neck. "And if you promise not to break Jacob's nose again, I'll bet you that we could do it by the time we get back from Michigan."


	2. Pay It No Mind.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The problem with what Cas wants, though, is that he forgot to plan for being at school—something even Dean took into account in deciding not to beat himself up too much over his gaining or potential lack thereof._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used here are: "toothache" for hc_bingo, "rough body play" and "painplay (other)" for kink_bingo, and "yours" for 2012 summer bingo at ~chubwinchesters. …It also accidentally included, "bodily secretions" (in this case: tears, sweat, and cum), because for an extended moment, I was a total ditz and forgot which simultaneous double-line bingo I was doing and what the prompt-pairings were. So, huzzah, more kinks sneaking into things?
> 
> And apparently, "I can't make any promises," is some magical codeword that makes me immediately start thinking up the exact numbers for different scenarios, which leads to me finding premises for fics. While this wasn't written specifically for [a certain nonny](http://bodasdesangre.livejournal.com/63825.html?thread=417617#t417617) who commented on the former fic about seeing Dean and Cas break Dean's old bed, but I had them in mind, so… I hereby dedicate this fic to that nonny, and offer many thanks for the plot-tribble. ♥

True to Cas's promise, he and Dean max out the bathroom scale by the time they're back from Michigan—and then some. Two weeks at Ruby's see them putting on a total of eleven pounds between the two of them, mostly thanks to Cas's ingenuity, Dean's aptitude for math, and a little bit of research. Calories pile up in the form of empty Double-Stuf Oreo packages, countless baked goods (made by Dean, Cas, and Ruby, who doesn't seem to mind enabling them, despite all of Dean's expectations), and (Dean's new favorite treat) fattening milkshakes, specifically designed to pack as many calories as possible into something easily consumed.

Dean and Cas have an agreement, when they get back. First, they try to weigh themselves together, just to see if they made it to their joint goal. Only after that will they get a fix on their separate weights. Neither of them have stuffed themselves today, not properly, to make sure the results are mostly accurate. Even with how big the scale is, it takes every ounce of their ingenuity—and a lot of sucking in—to fit them both on the platform in a way that means both of them can actually see the readout. Dean can't help holding his breath as he wraps his arms around Cas's waist, sneaking a grope of one of his love-handles, and he yelps when he looks down at the results: a line of bright red asterisks, _***_

When they turn to figuring out their individual results, Dean goes first. There hasn't been a significant change in the measurements of his waist or hips, and he doesn't feel that much bigger. However, the scale says that he's gone up a full five pounds since they left—crouching by it, Cas reads _three-hundred and thirty-one pounds_ off because Dean doesn't want to try sucking in enough to see it himself. And he kisses of Dean's belly as he stands up, smiling fondly, patting Dean's gut with pride, stealing a kiss off of Dean's lips before pointing him in the direction of the measuring tape and their logbook— _Well, go on, Fat-Assbutt. I can't wait around all day_. Dean blushes bright pink and cops a feel of Cas's plush ass in retaliation.

Cas, at least, looks a little bit bigger, which gets Dean's heart fluttering around his chest like crazy even before he wraps the tape around Cas's waist. He's in some of his old clothes, rather than the new stuff they picked up for him before they left for Ruby's, and it shows. He keeps tugging at the t-shirt to no avail—it keeps exposing his bellybutton and riding up on his stomach, no matter how much Cas tries to keep it down. Below that, his boxer-briefs aren't just digging into his flesh anymore; they're also bunching up in his ass-crack, so tight around his crotch that Dean can tell Cas was circumcised. Underneath the t-shirt's straining hem, Dean's pretty sure he can see new, reddish stretch-marks taking shape on Cas's skin.

The measurements are nice, too, but they don't really capture the sight of it all. Cas added a little bit to his waist and hips each in Michigan—another half-an-inch on his soft, curvy hips, while his waist is all the way up to fifty-three inches. As he toggles with the tape, Dean has to remind himself of what he's doing, because the rest of Cas is so very distracting, much too much to ignore. True, his thighs haven't had a gap between them for a while, but they look like they're jiggling more today, crowding in and grinding on each other more than they have lately. Cas's ass is definitely fuller—his round, plump cheeks strain at his underwear; one wrong move and he could split the back-seam, and God, how awesome would that be. All Dean needs now is a fix on Cas's weight and he'll be all set.

Cas has other ideas, though. Mostly ones about dragging this out for as long as he can. Cas refuses to even look at the scale until Dean's written down the figures, and when he finally steps on, he doesn't let Dean see the readout until he's had the chance to take it in himself. Dean lets slip a low whistle at the bright red, _272_ , and he hisses, _holy shit, really? …Cas, man, that's SIX freaking pounds_ —even when Cas leads him back to the bedroom, even when they wriggle into their pajamas and head downstairs for milkshakes, Dean still can't really get his mind around it. They've officially crossed an enormous milestone for Cas: he's put on just over a hundred pounds since he started gaining weight with Dean.

While they're downstairs, they get a pretty decent spread together, something to celebrate this accomplishment. They have time enough to do so. Mom, Dad, Sam, and his best friend, Andy, all went out to Frontier City and White Water Bay; they won't be home until late. So, without anyone around to tut-tut at them for their choices, Dean and Cas get to work. They order two extra-large pizzas, loaded with a mix of their favorite toppings, and Cas makes them two blender-sized servings of milkshake each. Without any apparent regard for counting the calories, he tosses in three different flavors of ice cream, full-fat milk, heavy cream, and whatever else he can get his hands on. Dean could bake a cake, if they had eggs, but since they don't, he just sneaks two containers of fudge frosting out of the pantry and takes a family-sized bag of chips as well.

And the lot of it ends up sharing Dean's mattress with him, and Cas, and Dean's DVD player, so they can have some Star Trek while they gorge themselves in commemoration of today. Of what they've achieved together. In a weird sort of way, it makes sense that they overshot things. Until now, they've gained without any particular goals. Dean's only wanted to be bigger, and Cas has wanted to come along with him, but, "bigger" is a relative, undefined kind of thing, not something as concrete as, "we both need to put on four pounds in two weeks."

And that mini-project seems to have awoken something in Cas, who throws himself headlong into this feeding session with a spirit that makes Dean look. Not that Dean would skimp on things today. Not that Dean ever skimps on one of their feeding sessions—which makes Cas's fervor that much more shocking. By the time Dean's starting his second slice of pizza, Cas has started his third. Cas is halfway through his second milkshake while Dean's just starting to sip at his—and before Dean can even get to his halfway point, Cas asks if Dean wouldn't mind him finishing. Most of the chips end up in Cas's mouth, as does the majority of the pizza. It doesn't seem like he'll ever stop—and even once he asks Dean to rub his hard, round belly for him, Cas keeps licking down spoonfuls of frosting.

Dean's bed doesn't really seem to like any of this much—he hears it creaking underneath them more than once—but Cas doesn't seem to mind. He doesn't seem to notice at all, even when Dean's just massaging Cas's stomach and could still swear that the frame groans. Cas also seems to work with some notion that Dean understands everything that's going on right now. He doesn't bother explaining any of this until the morning, over a five-egg ham, cheese, and mushroom-omelet, which he cooked in the fat from the huge helping of bacon Cas seems intent on finishing himself.

"It's quite intoxicating, really," he says through a mouthful of egg. "Having a real goal instead of just going after some vague idea. I don't know if you'll particularly want to join me in this—in the new take on things that I wish to examine and consider as a plan—"

"I'm pretty cool without having goals or anything," Dean says, and shrugs. "I want to keep gaining, definitely. I mean, my body's not exactly where I want it to be, yet, and I don't think I want to get too much bigger than four-hundred, but I like this a lot more without goals? Just taking things as they come?"

"This is fine, Dean. I don't mind you wanting to live your portion of our life in whatever way that you choose." He smiles, one of his inscrutable little, uniquely Cas smiles, and cuts off another huge forkful of omelet. "But I believe that I would like to set myself goals. Can I count on you to assist me in meeting them?"

There's only one answer that Dean has to that—a murmured _yes_ —and he seals it with a kiss, licking a stray bit of cheese off of Cas's lips.

*******

The first goal that Cas sets for himself is to be at two-seventy-five in time for his annual physical with Doctor Cara Roberts—which, incidentally, means his next trip back to his parents' place in Pontiac, Illinois. And despite—or maybe because of—the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Novak haven't seen Cas since he weighed maybe as much as two-forty, he chases this goal like his life depends on it. He draws up meal plans, relies on Dean to help enforce them, and in between all of his scheduled snacks and meals, he sneaks in extra milkshakes—even toward the end of their timeframe.

While Dean and Dad handle packing up the Impala, Cas makes himself a breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs, and one of his concoctions. He whips one up as soon as he and Dean have their things settled in his old bedroom, and he drinks another one without an apparent care in the world while his parents try to talk to him about his so-called _weight problem_. They mention that Jimmy's gotten kind of chunky lately—gained a good forty pounds, even, as Dean and Cas saw back at Ruby's—and that he put on weight because he's been depressed, but he's getting on a good diet. He'd probably be more than happy to help Cas lose his weight, too. Is Cas just eating so much because he's depressed. Sweetheart, they're just worried—all they ask is that Cas talk to them.

By way of replying, Cas just shrugs, explains that he's not depressed but thanks for the concern, and asks when dinner is. After having thirds of it (and sneaking a few bites off Dean's plate as well), he plows through seconds of his mother's chocolate cake and another milkshake. And sequestered away in his room, he gives Dean a treat: he sucks in his belly enough to get the waistband of his old jeans up where it belongs—and as soon as he exhales, he bursts the button off of them. He sighs, letting his belly go free, letting it push the zipper down and push the flaps so far apart that they might as well never meet again. Even with his belly unleashed, though, the rest of the jeans are still sinfully tight, basically painted onto Cas's plump thighs and ass. The seams strain to hold him in and every movement he makes, posing for Dean, threatens to rend the fabric.

Finally, when he bends over to pick up the button, there's a loud _rrrrript!_ as he splits his jeans up the back. Dean only gets the briefest glimpse of Cas's shorts through the hole over his ass, and he has to jerk Cas down to the mattress by his crushed waistband. Has to grind against Cas, pressing down into his still-hard stomach and digging his fingers into one of the thick rolls of fat on Cas's side.

So, ultimately, it's no surprise that things work out like he wants them to, or that Cas comes back from his physical with a positive report. Not only did he meet his goal, but he beat it by a pound. They check it on their scale and it's true. Cas weighs in at two-hundred and seventy-six pounds. His next big goal is to be two-eighty, but there's not really enough time to hit it between now and getting back to school. By the start of classes seems adequate, though—and true to his newfound form, he beats that mark, too. In the morning, before they go to get breakfast and head to their lectures, Cas tips the scales at two-eighty-two—already, the new clothes they got him when he was at two-sixty-six are getting tight, and by the end of their second week of classes, Cas is wearing some of Dean's old jeans unless he specifically wants to get off on his clothes being too small for his growing body.

The problem with what Cas wants, though, is that he forgot to plan for being at school—something even Dean took into account in deciding not to beat himself up too much over his gaining or potential lack thereof. Oh, sure, there's more than enough access to food that satisfies his meal plan—there's the buffet in the Gamble dining hall, there's all of the high-calorie treats at the Pub and the student bookstore, there's the host of take-away places that deliver to the student flat they're sharing with Viktor (Dean's friend), Corbett, and Meg (Cas's friends)… but there's also work. There's all kinds of running around after due dates and assignments to turn in—and never mind how everyone in their flat is going to graduate in May.

Because he's not to be deterred by anything like common sense, Cas keeps up with the eating—more than once, he eats until he complains not of stomach pains, but of his jaw hurting—but there's almost no joy in it. None that Dean can really see, anyway. Not even when he tries to encourage his poor, overachieving boyfriend.

And for all Cas's gaining has had the intended effects, it starts to slow down. He's heavier than he's ever been in his life and getting heavier still. While he can still skate by with the _just a bit chubby_ excuse, he's getting closer and closer to outgrowing it completely—Dean hasn't said so, because he's not sure how Cas might react, but for his money? Cas doesn't even look chubby anymore; he just looks _fat_. Soft all over (except for when he's recently stuffed himself), jiggling and warm and comfortable, with his hips, ass, and thighs all filling out while his fleshy belly starts sagging even lower—but Cas still puts on weight slowly.

At least, it looks that way from where Dean's sitting. He wouldn't know for sure, though, because after their weigh-in session at the end of week two, they go a long while without one. Fair enough, and it's worth it—while Cas is up to two-eighty-two, Dean checks in at three-thirty-five; at the thought of how much they weigh, combined (six-hundred and seventeen pounds, _so fucking close_ to six-twenty), he can't even stop himself from getting hard, so Cas blows him right there in the bathroom—but the mystery's a killer, and for seemingly endless weeks, it keeps right on, frustrating Dean with its lack of a definite answer for anything.

He doesn't _need_ the numbers to appreciate what's happening to Cas's body, but they sure as Hell _help_. Dean can't explain it, but the numbers make him _happy_. He loves having definition for exactly how big Cas gets, exactly how big he is himself. As it is, Dean notices the changes to Cas's body slowly, in fits and starts. He notices his own body's changes well enough—mostly by measuring them in terms of how tight his clothes feel—but Dean wants to put numbers on his appreciation of Cas, dammit, instead of this nebulous fucking around that he has. Here, Cas will fling him down to the mattress and, from this new angle, he'll notice that Cas's belly's looking thicker, softer. There, he'll be trailing kisses down Cas's neck and chest, and it'll occur to him that Cas's boobs seem bigger.

And it ends up not mattering what Dean wants, because Cas is trying to do way too much this semester. So, the lack of answers continues for a while. Until Halloween rolls around and—right on the heels of him emptying a bag of miniature Reese's cups, and a milkshake binge bursting the button off Dean's jeans—Cas finally decides that it's time they had their long overdue weigh-in.

*******

Technically, that happens the night before Halloween—but Cas insists that they wait until morning, on the grounds that he and Dean are both stuffed enough to throw off the results. Fair enough, yeah, but Dean still has to maneuver around his belly-hang and jerk himself off because he's _so fucking close_ to being able to put numbers on their weights and measurements. He'd at least try to hold back, if they were going to get this done tonight. But, since they aren't, Dean sees no other option. He just has to take care of himself.

In the morning, they skip their classes. They both have a sufficient amount of sick days left, and besides, Dean _does_ need to get online and order some new pants. He can still do up his jeans, and his sweats and pajamas still fit loosely enough, but there's no telling how long that's going to last. In celebration of how Dean's certainly gotten bigger, he goes first for the weigh-in session. According to Cas's measurements, his waist is up to sixty-four-and-a-half inches, while his hips are up to seventy-five—and Dean gets so caught up in swishing his hips, running his pudgy hands all over their full curves and grabbing at the fat that's settled onto them, that he almost forgets to climb up on the scale.

He doesn't blame himself for that, though. As much as he wants the numbers? Dean's getting something else that he wants, too. His boobs might not be big enough to pass as most women's, but they're too big to be most men's—even in the cases of fat dudes. His hips are filling out better than he ever could have expected. The satiny panties underneath his pajama bottoms dig into his fleshy sides, cling to his plump ass, are tight around his crotch—and his body's starting to look right. To feel right. Not exactly feminine, but not exactly feminine either. Like Dean and like he's always wanted to look.

When he finally climbs up on the scale, he's up to three-hundred-and-forty-five pounds—it's only a twelve-pound gain since the start of the semester, but Dean's content enough with that. Maybe the number on his weight isn't a big deal, but the reports from his measurements are more than enough to make up for that. Apparently, they're enough to make Cas pale, frown hesitantly as Dean readies to check him in—and when Dean asks what's wrong, Cas shrugs. Makes a wibbly noise from the back of his throat and confesses that he's been hoping he'll have broken the three-hundred-pound marker by now, hopefully all the way to three-oh-two, but has doubts about whether or not he really has. He's tried to keep to his diet plan, he really has—and of course, Dean has done a wonderful job enabling him—but with all of the stress of senior year, Cas worries that he might be behind schedule.

Dean just sighs and brushes his hand down the outer curve of Cas's belly, presses a gentle kiss into the little strip of pale flab that his old t-shirt exposes. Tries to tell Cas not to lose his head in anxiety, even though he knows that this is pointless. If Cas wants to worry, then he's going to worry, and the only thing Dean can do about the situation is snake the measuring tape around Cas's waist—which is well on its way to being fifty-nine inches around. ( _Fifty-eight-and-three-quarters_ , Cas sighs, rolling his eyes and reminding Dean to write down that _exact_ number in the logbook.) His hips have similar good omens, though they haven't put on as many inches as his waist. They're up to sixty-seven inches—and Cas even starts to smile as he faces the scale.

And his face falls as soon as he steps on, sucks in, and sees the readout. _298_ , all glaring and red—angry red, like Cas's newer stretch marks—and Dean groans for his boyfriend, too. To eat as much as Cas has, as often as he has, and still put on sixteen pounds instead of nearly twenty? To be so close to his goal and miss it? And by only two pounds (four, maximum)? That's got to fucking suck. Cas certainly seems to agree with that assessment. His whole face scrunches up—he's not even off the scale yet and Cas is tearing up. If there's anything that's fucking Kryptonite to Dean, it's watching someone he loves cry. Especially if that someone is Sam or Prince Caspian.

Sighing, Dean wraps his hand around Cas's (slightly thicker) wrist and tugs him back from the scale, around the sink and back over to the space Dean's cleared between his spread thighs. He yanks Cas in as close as he can, hugs him tight, and rests his head on Cas's chunky midsection, nuzzling at the upper curve of Cas's belly. Everything beneath him shakes as Cas coughs and starts to really, properly sob—maybe Cas hasn't put on that much weight, but he's definitely gotten fatter, softer, and positively every inch of him jiggles now. It's only because of the choked noises he makes—not to mention glancing up at his miserable eyes, his reddening cheeks, the tears streaming down them—that Dean manages not to get hard just from the thought that Cas has even gotten to this size.

Cas huffs and drops his arms to Dean's shoulders, digs his fingers into the fat on Dean's upper back, but even with that hold, it seems he can't focus on anything more pleasant. He makes another high-pitched cough—which knocks the fat on his stomach out and into Dean's cheek and neck—and without checking anything (like maybe if Dean's ready for this), he crumples, drops onto one of Dean's legs and sits. He yanks Dean closer to him still, jerking their bodies into the scant space between them and squeezing Dean's shoulders hard enough that Dean winces. Meanwhile, Dean grunts, rocks forward from the sudden impact— _Jesus **God**_ , even if he can still squeeze his ass onto Dean's thigh, even if he hasn't met his latest goal, Cas is _definitely_ heavier—and he only barely manages to remember himself in time to sigh sympathetically and rub his hand in gentle circles along Cas's back.

He has a similar round of trouble in trying to keep himself grounded while Cas clings at him. Sure, it's hard to ignore the hot, wet feeling that builds up on his shoulder—the feeling of Cas's tears seeping into his t-shirt and shoulder, into the curve of Dean's neck—but it's harder to focus on that when Cas's heaving chest and stomach keep insisting upon themselves. When they keep bumping and jiggling against Dean's own body; when they keep making Dean's own stomach shake from the force with which they knock into him. He should be more focused on telling Cas that it's all okay—that everything's fine, Dean promises—but he can't help slithering his hands up and down Cas's pudgier back, gripping onto his love-handles and the thicker, warmer rolls of his back-fat, reaching down to dig his fingers into whatever part of Cas's full ass he can find. Dean only stops at all because Cas chokes out a little mewling noise and buries himself deeper into the flesh of Dean's neck, the fat underneath his chin.

"I know that it isn't anything to scoff at," he manages to whimper, curling one of his hands into Dean's shoulder, pressing his palm and fingers in so hard that Dean's afraid of getting bruised—and shocked at the strength Cas is hiding underneath the façade of his body only being flabby and unfit. "But I've been trying _so hard_ … I would've thought that, surely…"

Sighing, brushing one hand up and over Cas's permanently mussed up hair, Dean leans back into the cold tile wall, dragging Cas with him, all for the sake of feeling all nigh-on three-hundred pounds of Cas bear down on him harder. …Well. As many of those pounds as Cas and gravity can throw behind this, anyway—which is more than enough to leave Dean's chest heaving when he tries to breathe, more than enough for each cough, each sob to hit Dean's stomach harder than they did before. He doesn't care how wet his neck and shoulder get; he just holds Cas here, lets his heart flutter around from how heavy Cas is against him, and rubs his back until he settles down a little bit. Which doesn't stop him quietly crying, for all it takes away the jiggle that Dean's come to love.

On the one hand, Dean totally gets why Cas is upset about this. But on the other hand? For all this situation fucking sucks, it provides Dean with an opportunity. A chance to teach Cas something—which he doesn't get all that often.

Sighing, he takes his pouty-faced boyfriend by the hand and leads him out to the apartment's common room. He sets Cas up on the couch, has him put his feet up, and puts on one of his Voyager DVDs, because it might not be _real_ Star Trek, but it's Cas's favorite, and the whole point of today is comforting Cas. Making Cas feel loved. Giving him a goddamned toothache from how sweet his boyfriend is, when Dean puts his mind to it.

Over the course of the day, he brings Cas: a huge plate of leftover lasagna, two orders of chicken lo mein with fried rice, a plate of freshly baked brownies, two huge bags of Halloween candy, three pints of Ben and Jerry's, and four of Cas's fattening milkshakes—and Dean guides Cas through eating all of it, teases him about going faster or slower, massages his taut stomach between rounds of stuffing it full, pinches at his fat rolls and tells him how big and plump he's getting, how he'll hit three-hundred in no time at all…

All of which builds up to the moral of Dean's story, delivered in the middle of rubbing Cas's belly: "See, Cas? You can't just keep eating mechanically or you'll hate it. Your body's probably trying to fight back or some other psychosomatic crazy thing. Don't just abuse your body in feeding it like that, and don't beat yourself up with worrying about your goals. Like, keep them in mind, sure? Work toward them—but don't use them as an excuse to get pissed off at yourself or anything. Besides, life's hard enough already, isn't it? What's the point of having a release valve or fun, happy stuff if you're not going to really let yourself let go and be happy with it, right?"

Cas supposes that Dean's right, and agrees to take it easier on himself—but then has to kick Dean in the heart. "In the spirit of honoring that request," he says, "I think that we should, perhaps, postpone any further weigh-in sessions until I come to visit you over winter break. And in the interests of being nicer to myself? I'm only going to aspire to reach three-hundred and fifteen pounds by then. I believe that this is a reasonable goal?"

*******

Well, not for nothing, but Dean heads home for winter break pretty sure that Cas has already hit three-fifteen, if not passed it. And Dean's money would be on Cas surpassing that goal by at least five pounds. For one thing, it's getting harder and harder to hug him properly, as they both get bigger. If it were just Dean gaining weight, he thinks that he could still hold Cas just fine—but no, no. There's extra fat in the way on both ends of this equation.

Slightly more damning evidence, however, comes in the form of clothes. Cas has all but given up on wearing most of his own clothing and by the time they're out of classes until late January, he's full-time moved into old jeans and shirts of Dean's—the pairs Dean was wearing just before he tipped the scales at three-twenty-six. Cas does keep some of his own clothes, though. Mostly his t-shirts, because few things make him as happy as the long process of wearing them out until they're in shreds, until he absolutely can't wear them anymore. Dean has numbers; Cas has tight clothes. Everything balances out, Dean guesses.

Likewise, Dean knows that he must've put on a significant amount of weight long before he traipses out of the Impala and through the front door, long before Sam's eyes nearly fall out of his skull, and long before Dean's endearing pain in the ass of a brother tells him, _So, I'll text Mom and tell her we'll need even more food for Christmas dinner, then, right?_ …It's pretty hard to miss how fat Dean's gotten. For one thing, Dean's having the same clothing troubles that he sees Cas having. For another, he can hear Baby creaking, just a little bit, every time he climbs into her front seat. And when he wanders up to his room, his bed protests having him on it—he didn't even set his suitcase on the mattress with him.

Above all else, though, Dean's walking taller, despite the growing pain in his back and the way his knees have started protesting against carrying so much weight. He's holding his head higher; he doesn't waddle so much as he can't ever stop making a spectacle of his hips. Because his body is perfect—finally, it's pretty much exactly where he wants it to be. In most positions, his under-belly even hangs over his crotch enough that Dean has to hold it back so he can jerk off or so Cas can blow him—and Dean _loves_ that. Loves the functional androgyny that his extra chins, his boobs, and especially his hips give him. Even with how much he loves knowing exact numbers, _this_ matters more than anything else Dean can think of.

Well, this, and the fact that no one else says anything about his weight. Maybe he hasn't explained it to them, but at least they've gotten the message that Dean likes being fat, that Dean _wants_ to be fat, how important to him it is that he's fat. Mom's always been supportive, for the most part, worrying about Dean's health, but still letting him make his own decisions. Dean hasn't had such luck with Dad before—but the simple message seems to have sunk in, to the point that he doesn't even arch his eyebrows when Dean gets seconds of Christmas dinner.

…and, on top of that, there's the helpful business of knowing that Mom, Dad, and Sam will be out of the house when Cas gets out to Lawrence. About the last thing that Dean needs or wants on that day is for them to be there to eavesdrop on either a weigh-in session or the sex that Dean intends to have when he and Cas are done. They haven't been exactly celibate this semester, but with all the stress from classes and Cas needing to be nicer to himself, it's been hard to get as much sex in as Dean wants to have.

Numbers are definitely an additional cherry on the good things sundae, though, and when Dean picks Cas up from the airport on the twenty-seventh, they're the first thing on his mind. Next in line, though, is Cas and how he looks. In the eleven days they've spent apart, Cas definitely looks like he's put on weight—Dean isn't sure how much of that is legitimate and how much of it's bloat from holiday stuffing sessions, and he's not sure it really matters. As Dean rounds the corner into domestic pickups, he spots his boy immediately, has to bite his lip because Cas has gotten so thick that he hasn't even tried to button his coat. He could get it done up—if with a little bit of difficulty—when they went their temporary separate ways.

When Cas slides into the front seat, Baby groans for him, too, and Dean gets all sorts of other little teases, clear as day—the extra pudge underneath Cas's jawline, the way his shirt (one of Dean's old Metallica tees) keeps inching up his stomach, the hint of red marks from where his jeans dig into his hips—and all Dean can think about on the drive home is how hot Cas is going to look when he's naked, how much weight he must have gained in order to get so big.

They barely have time to settle Cas's things in Dean's room before he strips down to his shorts and t-shirt, tells Cas to do the same. Tugs Cas down the hall to the bathroom, to the scale and the measuring tape. In retaliation for Dean's eagerness, Cas makes him go first, and drags through the process, loops the tape around Dean as slowly as he possibly can, slides it along the skin that Dean's t-shirt exposes and makes him shudder from how cold it is… and keeps his voice perfectly nonchalant as he announces that Dean's waist is up to seventy-one inches.

Cas repeats this process with Dean's hips, even seems like he's trying to take longer with it—but it's worth it to hear that they're up to a full eighty-two inches. Which, as Cas informs Dean in the same tone of voice he'd use to report the weather, means that Dean will almost certainly require two seats on an airplane, if they still intend to go to Mexico for spring break.

"Gorgeous," Dean says, heaving a sigh from the bottom of his chest, maneuvering carefully so he doesn't knock one of his hips into Cas as he turns toward the scale. "I so can't even begin to think about spring break right now, okay? Let's do this one thing at a time, huh?"

Once Cas agrees to that, Dean steps on the scale, and waits, and finds that even sucking in his stomach doesn't make it any easier for him to read the results. All he sees is his own flesh and the off-pink tiles on the wall. Cas huffs, grunts and groans as he drags himself up off the toilet, then tries to lower himself enough to peer around Dean's fat—and finally, he reads off, "Three-sixty-six, Dean. You're up to three-hundred and sixty-six pounds. And I think you'll be needing new panties as a belated Christmas present—" He dips a finger into Dean's waistband, snaps it against Dean's tender flesh. "These are looking far too small for you."

Dean grins—but his pride is somewhat short-lived. It's so much more important that he wedge himself into the space between the wall and the counter, and wait for Cas to get over here already so Dean can measure him. Cas doesn't hesitate, exactly, but he dallies about getting over into Dean's personal space, shuffling up into the space between Dean's thick, spread legs—and by the time he finally gets there, Dean can't wait anymore. He all but throws the tape around Cas's waist, pushes his hand into Cas's soft flesh as he adjusts things and comes up with a verdict—one that he stares at and has to re-measure three times before he's willing to believe it.

Not that he hasn't seen his boyfriend ballooning since Halloween—of course he has; and he's felt it, too—but Dean didn't expect Cas to have grown by so much in just under two months. The final answer is that Cas's waist clocks in at sixty-nine inches, and Dean pauses after he says so, because he needs to brush his hands along Cas's middle. He needs to pinch at Cas's fat rolls and trace all the curves around Cas's stomach, and even sinking his fingers into all of this soft, yielding evidence? Even watching his old t-shirt ride up, seeing the stretch-marks and the angry impressions of his jeans all along Cas's flesh? Dean's still not certain that he believes how _big_ Cas has gotten, how _fat_.

He might even be fatter than Dean is, by this point. Oh, sure, his waist is slightly trimmer, and Dean doubts that Cas weighs three-sixty-six or even close to that—but Cas is also a few inches shorter than Dean is, so his weight shows more clearly, and he's not any ex-athlete who decided to get fat. On the contrary, Cas is a formerly pudgy nerd who decided to get fat. Almost every pound he's gained since freshman year has been in warm, jiggling fat—gently, and just because he still has his doubts, Dean thwaps Cas's stomach. He gasps—feels his heart try to jump up into his throat—when Cas's whole torso, from his belly up to his breasts, seems to tremble. He slaps Cas's belly again, and harder this time, and watches as the shaking makes Cas's t-shirt inch a little further up his gut.

Staring more than he'd willingly admit, Dean tries to get a handful of Cas's flab, but finds it difficult to find a roll that his hand can properly grab onto—when he finally pinches on one, he knows there's more that he could grab, which just makes him hold on harder. He digs his fingers in, kneads them into Cas's flesh, until Cas moans for him. He might even be hard, but Dean can't really tell—not with Cas's under-belly hanging as far over the waistband of his underwear as it does.

It's probably a minor miracle that Dean shakes himself around enough to measure Cas's hips, and again, he has to double-check his figures out of disbelief. Because they can't be as thick in the hips as each other—Cas cannot have the same measurement here that Dean does—and yet, there it is, clear as day: Cas's hips are eighty-two inches around. A thought that makes Dean groan—makes him feel his dick straining against his panties and pushing up into his belly—and makes Cas blush bright pink. He's smiling at the same time, but it's a bemused smile. One that matches his wide eyes and the look of shock, like his internal monologue is asking how on earth all of these extra inches got here, because he has no idea whatsoever.

Sighing heavily, Cas shuffles around and over to the scale for his moment of truth. He steps up onto the platform and waits—because maybe he could still suck in and bend over enough to see the readout himself, but he doesn't want to do that. He wants Dean to handle it for him. And Dean's more than happy to oblige him—and to reward Cas with a low, impressed whistle before he says, "Well, Prince Caspian… Not only have you gone and passed three-fifteen with flying colors? But you're, erm. This little number here says you're all the way up to three-thirty."

Before Cas can even think about moving, Dean hefts himself up and crowds in on Cas's back, knocking and pressing his belly into the Cas, only sucking in a little bit so he can get his arms more firmly around Cas's middle. Dean's not exactly shocked when he can't get his arms all the way around Cas, not even when he's digging them into Cas's flesh, but on the other hand, he doesn't exactly need to manage that. He just needs to be in a position where he can grope at his boyfriend—and grope he does. He holds on to the first rolls of flab that he can get his pudgy hands on—both of them end up being along Cas's under-belly; it's just easier to grab small pieces of—and digs his fingers into them, works his hands deep into Cas's flesh, feels Cas wriggling within his hold and feels his fat jiggling from the force with which he groans.

It takes effort, and some maneuvering, and some more sucking in, but Dean still manages to lean in and kiss at the top of Cas's spine, working around the collar of his t-shirt. He digs his teeth into the bit of bulk that's accumulated here as it has everywhere else on Cas's body—and he moans up against Cas's skin, says, "See? What'd I tell you about letting yourself _enjoy_ the process? Now look at you—you're up a hundred-sixty pounds from where you started—you're all plump and soft and sexy and warm—and hey, Cas? You know what else?"

Dean only shuts up long enough for Cas to suppose that he does not know what else. Then, nipping at the back of Cas's neck, Dean tells him, "We're only four pounds off from having seven-hundred of 'em between the two of us. What d'you think about that?"

Cas slouches back into Dean's hold, and hard enough to send them toppling back into the counter. Feeling the edge of it dig into his ass, Dean grunts and tightens his hold on Cas in retaliation. Cas just snickers and drops his head back, lets it loll against Dean's shoulder. "I think that you and I need to relocate this conversation," he says. "The bedroom would be lovely. We should also investigate divesting it somewhat. There are far too many clothes involved in this discussion."

*******

They knock and thunder back down the hallway, groping at each other, kissing as much as they can manage under the circumstances—Dean kicks the bedroom door shut behind them because sure, the house might be empty, but it's still a matter of propriety and personal preference. As they head for the bed, they don't really move as one being—they try to be in synch with each other, but they aren't—Cas moves to grind as Dean tries to grope him; Dean tries to yank off Cas's shorts while Cas tries to fumble Dean out of his t-shirt. They have the same basic idea, the same destination, the same desire, but each of them tries too hard to get there, to be the one in charge of getting them there.

And so they end up not sinking or dropping to the bed, but flopping onto it, in a half-tangle from each trying to tackle the other. It's a miracle that they've gotten out of their clothes without ripping anything apart—that's how much they're groping and clawing at each other. Never mind the miracle of the bed supporting them both. Even with Dean's legs and one of Cas's still dangling off the edge, Dean knows he hears the bed-frame groaning underneath them, and he doesn't have it in him to give a fuck. All he wants is Cas. All he needs is to get their bodies arranged better, so he can fucking _have_ Cas. They're still not in synch though, and for a moment, no progress happens whatsoever. None except for Cas's stray leg flailing, his knee digging at Dean's thick, fat thigh and his hip knocking into Dean's.

The first proper attempt at rolling them around, getting both of them properly up on the mattress comes from the wrong direction and it's off-balance to boot—Dean doesn't put enough muscle behind heaving himself around, much less enough to move Cas as well—and he groans as Cas ends up collapsing, face-first, into his stomach. Tossing Cas off takes more effort than it used to, even from when he's been chubby, and even though Dean knows how fat Cas has gotten—how much he weighs and his measurements, how soft and flabby his once-relatively-trim body's gotten—this still takes him by surprise. Three failed attempts pass before Dean manages to nudge Cas off his chest and all the way onto the mattress, where he lands with a deep grunt, another groan from the bed.

Dean has to pause a moment, then—taking deep breaths, chest and stomach jiggling as he wheezes, tries to get back the wind that he knocked out of himself—but soon enough, Dean manages to hoist himself onto the bed proper—which the bed protests. Once Dean's gotten his legs up, once he's slumped down on the mattress and still catching his breath, he hears the frame groaning again—it's unmistakable as anything else—but Dean doesn't have the time to think about that. Not when his cock's still insisting upon itself, hard and digging against his under-belly's sag, and certainly not when Cas is an opportunist the way he is. Grunting, he hefts and drags himself up, crashes back into Dean, gets half-atop him, which is still enough to make Dean feel all of Cas's new weight—every single pound (he's certain of this) smacks into his side and stomach, and both he and Cas tremble all over, flesh rippling with the force of the impact, with all the force Cas puts behind knocking and grinding into Dean.

Dean's back and hips groan from the effort—Dean has to huff and take a deep breath to make anything work at all—but he forces his hips and belly up, drags himself up just enough to bump them into Cas. They meet each other, still not quite in synch, but grinding in rhythms that match each other well enough for Dean—and while Cas catches his breath, Dean grips onto his shoulder, shoves him back down to the mattress and hefts himself around (moving his legs comes easily enough but still takes more effort than Dean would've guessed). He tries to settle atop Cas, but mostly uses the position to grind against Cas with as much of his body—as much of his weight—as Dean can throw behind it. Battering his belly into Cas's, digging his fat, wobbly thighs into Cas's sides, feeling Cas's rolls of fat press back into his own flab, grinding his hips down on Cas as hard as he can.

And Cas groans—writhes under Dean and nudges his hips around, into Dean's legs. Bucking up at Dean's hips with a strength that manages to lift both of them off the mattress, then sends them crashing back down. Dean grunts, gapes down at their trembling bellies—and in retaliation, he leans down on Cas that much more, trying to cover all of Cas's fat with his own. Rubbing his stomach back and forth against Cas's; in long, slow circles atop of Cas's; almost all of him bearing down on Cas to the tune of Cas's breathy moans, to the feeling of Cas scratching up his back, groping around his flesh. Dean rests his weight on Cas and his own knees, freeing up his hands to pinch and grope and snake their way around between his body and his boyfriend's, grabbing at whatever fat, whatever rolls that he can get his hands on. More than once, Dean misses Cas and sinks his fingers into his own flesh. And it's one of those moments that gets him off his guard enough for Cas to strike back.

It hits Dean quickly—Cas grips onto his shoulder, kneads into it, and as Dean raises his hips, Cas knocks his hip hard into Dean's leg. His strength still takes Dean by surprise. Before he knows what's happening, Dean's on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, and then at the too placid expression on Cas's face—that almost eerie, inscrutable smile that he gets when he's about to be smarter than everyone else in the room. Which isn't all that hard when they're alone, Dean supposes—it's the last thought he has before Cas grinds his hips down harder than Dean even tried to do. Once, and twice, and— _ugh!_ Dean groans so hard, from so deep in his chest, that his whole belly shakes. Even his tits tremble—though maybe both of those come from Cas plopping himself down onto Dean's stomach. All three-hundred and thirty pounds of him thump down onto Dean, knocking the wind out of him again, and _sweet Jesus fuck_ , Dean wants Cas to do it again.

Cas doesn't, though. Not at first. Instead, he trails his pudgy fingers down the apples of Dean's cheeks, and says—quietly, too calmly, as though he's commenting on a weather report or talking about his grad school plans—that he wants Dean to stay still. Dean can make all the noises that he wants—by all means, Cas encourages Dean's lack of volume-control—and as soon as Dean nods, Cas rewards him: he hefts himself up off of Dean and crashes back down into his stomach, grinding his wide, heavy ass into Dean's belly. He fusses around, next—Cas rocks back and forth on top of Dean, first bearing down on Dean with just his ass, then angling himself so he can get his belly in on the action, all the while bearing down on Dean as though he can't stand the thought of Dean breathing. As though it's bad enough that Dean manages to get in his quick gasps of air, hard as they are, as much as it hurts Dean to heave his chest that little bit.

As though he can't even feel the bed rocking, shaking underneath them, or hear it creaking. As though he wants to see Dean crushed, pulverized into the mattress. And when Cas pulls the initial trick again, lifts himself up off of Dean only to drop down harder than he has before, Dean's not entirely sure that he minds the idea. Getting squashed by Cas until breathing's even harder than this? Until it's a miracle that Dean can breathe at all? Well, fuck, that sounds just awesome to Dean.

Cas smirks down at Dean's dazed, besotted smiling, and it makes him grind into Dean harder—makes the headboard bang into the wall, which in turn makes Cas come at Dean harder still. Shit, he must be a mind-reader. When grinding starts to bore him, he sits up and squirms instead, shaking his hips, bouncing on Dean's stomach like a fucking trampoline. At first, he's almost gentle—experimenting with how much force, how much _pain_ , three-hundred and thirty pounds really translates to—he bobs up and down on Dean's stomach so softly that the only punch comes just from how heavy he's gotten. And his motions are slow, deliberate, punctuated by him tilting his head down at Dean, studying how Dean gasps, and groans, and scrunches up his face.

Then, out of nowhere, Cas speeds up, smirking again and chuckling, all low and from the back of his throat, as he smacks into Dean harder, faster. Shaking the bed that much more, making the creaking louder—Dean groans, mutters that Cas is so fucking hot, so big and sexy, and Dean _wants_ him so fucking much.

Cas snickers. He jostles atop Dean with more intent and less care. Goes back to treating Dean like a he's not a boyfriend but a damn playground, rocking around, coming up to give Dean the slightest break from getting squished beneath Cas's weight and collapsing back into place _so fucking hard_ —Dean groans each time Cas smashes into him, sometimes chokes out words like _don't stop_ , and _so heavy_ , and _fuck, Fat Ass, you feel so fucking good_ , and although Cas told him not to move, Dean finally can't help it. Groaning, gasping, he knots his hands up in his bedsheets. In retaliation, Cas lifts himself fairly high off of Dean—holds that position for long enough that Dean dares to trust it—then comes crashing down into Dean as he's in the middle of catching his second breath. Knocks it right out of Dean's chest and just chuckles, looking like a fat cat in a canary cage and ever-so-fucking-pleased with himself.

Dean hadn't intended to make Cas pull off any stops, but that's to be his punishment-and-reward for so much as moving his hands. Cas really speeds up, now, giving Dean less and less time between each thrust, between each impact. He scoots up higher, closer to Dean's chest, bounces there for a moment. Then another moment. All slowly and more deliberately than before—careful, like he's handling a baby or a museum piece. Teasing at squashing Dean's ribcage but never quite getting there—Dean's lungs and insides all writhe and twist at the thought; his stomach does flip-flops and his heart races—because his body aches underneath of Cas, and he thinks he wants to feel Cas flop down on his ribs—but Cas could put both of them in the ER like that. Dean trusts his boyfriend; he doesn't trust gravity, though, and his jury's still out about Cas's command of his new weight.

Finally, worry flashes across Cas's face, knots up his brow. Soon enough, he's back down around Dean's stomach. Where it's more comfortable, less anxious for both of them. Good thing, too. It means Dean doesn't have to break out their safe-word and that Cas can go back to jerking and bobbing around at the fever-pitch that he'd had before. Harder, and faster, and smirking at what Dean lets him do. Tightening his flabby thighs and rolling them all over Dean's plush hips. Moving like he wants both of them to be walking bruises in the morning. Dean doesn't mind this idea either, and he moans for Cas, groans for him, drags the noises up his throat from the pit of his stomach because no one else is in the house and Cas told him to get loud if he wanted. Dean doesn't have to hold back, and every grunt he spits up makes Cas speed up, press himself down on Dean harder still.

And it all shows, too, as Cas starts picking up the pace, starts working himself up into a rush. At first, it's just that each round makes his flesh jiggle and shake so nicely, rippling the way Cas makes Dean's fat ripple, putting on a show for Dean. But it's not long before Cas is huffing, puffing, and red in the face. Before the effort he's putting into this makes itself clear in his heaving chest, his grunting and the way he screws up his face as he tries to move, tries to so much as grind on Dean—fair enough, this is probably the most exercise he's had since the last time they went further than mutual blow-jobs. Soon enough, sweat beads up on his forehead. Glistens in the sunlight coming through Dean's blinds and starts trailing down Cas's face, his chubby cheeks, his double-chin (which looks so much plumper from this angle, might even be a triple-chin by now).

Tiring out—or starting to—makes Cas go at Dean harder, which makes his breaths harder and harder to take in. But Cas won't be defeated by his body; he's too stubborn for that. He keeps up for long enough that Dean loses track of how many times he hears the bed creak under them in protest. It chimes in to disapprove almost every time Cas moves—gets louder every time he smashes into Dean's stomach and keeps crying with each of Cas's thrusts—but if Cas notices, then he doesn't seem to care. The noise—the constant threat that they just might overload his fucking bed—only makes Dean groan that much harder. Just to egg Cas on and see how close to breaking this thing their combined six-hundred and ninety-six pounds can get.

Finally, though, Cas has to slow down. He pauses, taking several deep breaths and sitting still atop Dean's belly. Dean almost wonders if they'll have to quit before anyone gets off—but then Cas sighs and pinches at a huge roll of fat underneath Dean's breast. He whispers that Dean can move now, but only if he follows Cas's instructions. Dean doesn't need to think—can't really manage it anyway, as breathless as he's been, with his dick straining underneath his under-belly and underneath of Cas. Dean nods, whispers that he'll follow whatever orders Cas wants to give him.

The first one—and the only one that Cas bothers giving Dean—is simple. Just three words: _hold my belly_ —and Cas moves his sagging flab up out of the way, revealing his erect cock. Exactly as Cas asks, Dean lifts his stomach out of the way, holds it in place—sinks his fingers in as hard as he can, cursing the fact that he keeps his nails cut short because he wants so badly to dig them into Cas's flesh—and before he knows what's coming, before he can even guess, he gets Cas knocking and grinding back into him again. Rocking back and forth, hands sinking into Dean's flabby arms to keep Cas mostly upright as he rubs his cock against Dean's flesh, presses it down deep into Dean's plump, soft stomach, tries to get Dean's warm paunch all nice and wrapped around his member. And he sighs deeply when he manages that, looking totally blissed out before he's even close to coming.

Cas can't be oblivious to Dean's own erection—but whatever he knows, he takes his fucking time getting himself up. He thrusts his hips, batters them into Dean's, but drags his cock back and forth along Dean's fat in long, slow strokes. But Dean's okay like this, too, for all he wants to get off already, for all he can't help mewling from the _needfuckwant_.

Each one of Cas's motions gets his weight to bear down on Dean, pushes him further into the mattress, makes the bed whine underneath them—even when he thrusts harder, he keeps things slow, teases Dean with the series of noises (the gasps, grunts, and breathy moans) that don't manage to drown out the bed's complaining. Mid-thrust, Cas groans, giving Dean a perfect view of his the ripples trembling through his fat, which makes him want to reach out and grab somewhere else on Cas's body—but instead, he clenches his hands tighter into Cas's belly, kneading and digging at Cas's tender, yielding flesh.

Which makes Cas push that much harder, deeper into Dean's fat—once, and twice, then another time—Cas gasps deeply, lets it out in a whine as he comes, spills his hot, sticky seed all over Dean's belly—and Dean lets go of Cas's belly, thinks that maybe Cas might let up and handle him now. Cas starts to, at least. He lifts up Dean's own under-belly, pushes it back and tells Dean to hold it. He turns his attention to grinding on Dean, rubbing his own stomach all along Dean's cock, bearing and pressing down on Dean, rocking back and forth, up and down, covering Dean's cock with his warm, fat stomach.

But then Cas comes at Dean too hard. He pulls back too far, drops down onto Dean again, all heavy and jiggling from the force of his own impact—Dean groans, _so close_ to getting off, has to focus on not knocking his hips up into Cas's, the way he wants. He has to focus on letting Cas do all the work, if he's so intent on that—but Dean's hips rock anyway and Cas batters into him again. Harder than before. Dean groans, whimpers for Cas to do that again, please, fuck, please—and Cas obliges him, drops down and grinds his belly against Dean's cock. Once more, then again for good measure.

And then the bed-frame creaks. Whines louder than it has yet tonight. The headboard beats into the wall as Cas knocks down into Dean another time. Draws another creak out of the bed—there's a low, deep moan and Cas hesitates—nothing happens, so he lifts up again, crashes back down—and the next sound is the clatter of screws coming undone, the smack of hardwood frame into hardwood floor, and the dull, resounding thud of the mattress and the box-spring slamming into the floor. Dean groans again, this time not from intoxication but from having no goddamn idea how the fuck he'll explain this to Mom and Dad—at least he doesn't have to dwell on that, though.

At least Cas mostly stays in place, wrapping one of his stomach's fleshy rolls up around Dean's cock and grinding, rubbing along his shaft until Dean cums. Blows his load and gets his jizz all mixed up with Cas's—all of it hot, though Dean can hardly appreciate it, from the waves of orgasm wracking his body and the way his flesh jiggles as he groans. Cas sighs, finally rolling off of Dean—and Dean manages to get a deep breath as Cas traces his fingers in circles through the sticky mess on Dean's stomach. He lies there, on his side, curling up as close to Dean's as his hips and Cas's belly will allow. With a soft huff, Dean wriggles around and drapes his arm around Cas's shoulders.

They're quiet for a while, just breathing, with Cas's lips finding their way up to Dean's skin. And in the back of his mind, Dean can't help wondering how they're going to get up, if the box-spring will make that any easier. Cas can probably help himself up, but Dean hasn't been this close to the floor in a while. He's not sure if he'll be all right or if he'll get stuck.

"Well, I don't know about you," Cas finally says, pressing a kiss into Dean's shoulder. "But I, for one, think that we are very lucky the beds at school have a maximum capacity of a thousand pounds. And I think that it would behoove us to find a sturdier frame to replace this one."

He only pauses long enough for Dean to question that, and in response, merely shrugs. "Again, I have no idea what your plans are—if you would prefer to maintain your current weight or gain more—but… I do not believe that I have finished gaining yet. I'm thinking of trying for another twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds by spring break?"

Dean chuckles and pinches at one of Cas's rolls of back-fat. "Well, I still need to think about me," he mutters, kisses Cas's forehead. "But if they make you happy, Gorgeous? Then another twenty-five pounds sound fucking hot to me."


	3. Don't Listen To A Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn't get hard yet. Not even from squishing his stomach's pliant flab between his hands—but, then again, it's better that way. Gives Cas more time to work himself up, more time to enjoy this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used in this chapter are: "mirrors/doubles" and "authority figures" for kink_bingo; "red" for ~chubwinchesters summer bingo; and, "hostile climate" for hc_bingo.

Even with its reinforced frame, the whole bed groans as Cas topples backward into it. Maybe it's his imagination, but he could swear that he feels everything sagging underneath him as he splays his flabby legs, runs his hands all over the soft expanse of his stomach. He takes a deep breath, heaving his chest with the effort of it, forcing himself to look up from his pale, stretch-marked flesh and over to the full-length mirror propped against the closet door. Just one glance at himself—at the ripples of his belly and his hips, at his enormous legs—makes his dick twitch against the underside of his gut.

He doesn't get hard yet. Not even from squishing his stomach's pliant flab between his hands—but, then again, it's better that way. Gives Cas more time to work himself up, more time to enjoy this.

Three-forty-eight, that's what the scale said. It's two weeks into his last semester as an undergrad—nearly three weeks, actually, and only slightly over a month since they shattered Dean's bed—and Cas has put on eighteen pounds. At this rate, he could easily get that number up to a full twenty—a thought that makes his stomach turn over and sets his head reeling. For all Cas has seen the numbers on the scale stare back up at him, for all he gropes at his sagging under-belly, he can't fathom how he's put on so much weight since the last time he saw the business end of a weigh-in. Not even considering how many times he's made himself shakes of heavy cream, ice cream, and weight gain powder.

The mirror doesn't help him come to terms with how real this is; it just makes Cas rock his hips toward nothing in particular, bucking into his own hands and wishing that he won't keep himself waiting that long. Watching every motion he makes, how every slight shift makes him jiggle all over, even up to the soft, fleshy tits that he's getting. Cas hasn't done this before and, now that he's trying it out, he can't fathom why. Perhaps because watching himself like this proves odder than he bargained for.

It really is so strange, looking at all this flesh, all the soft and supple flab, and thinking about it as his own—even as Cas grabs up his under-belly with both hands, even as he fails to get them wrapped around the whole expanse (or even a significant fraction of it), even as he can't encompass all of it. On some level, in his own mind, he's still the scrawny boy with just a bit of tummy-pudge. Not the fat guy looking back at him. Certainly not the young man losing all visible traces of his neck (though his cheekbones still insist upon themselves), losing his excuses for how big he's gotten (dropping _oh, it's just a few pounds_ well by the wayside), losing the right to call himself _chubby_ or _tubby_ or _chunky_ or any other word but _fat_.

He takes up—on his own, if only from the looks of it—a good half of this bed. Seems a miracle that he and Dean have ever managed to squeeze themselves and both of their fat asses onto the mattress. Cas heaves another deep breath and hefts himself around, has to use both arms just to pry himself up enough to scoot back and lean into the wall. He bends his knees and splays his legs further apart, manages to sneak enough space between his thighs for his gut to flop between them, sloshing and practically liquid for how little resistance Cas finds to jostling his fingers through it. Mushing it around in his hands—shuffling his belly here, or there, or losing track of time as he just plays with all his plump, fatty rolls—he might as well be playing with pudding.

 _You can't really live like this, brother. I mean, you don't **enjoy** it, right_ , he hears Jacob drawling in the back of his mind—and it's this that finally gets Cas hard, gets his dick at attention and nuzzled up against the flab covering his crotch. He pulls back on the fat, clears the way. Drops his hand to his cock. He rubs his thumb around the base in circles as Jacob goes on:

_You're letting yourself go times twenty—which, okay, is something new and different for you, and it's your choice or whatever. I respect that. I really do. And don't get me wrong, it's great to see you letting loose a little bit—but don't you give a damn about yourself anymore, Cas?_

_Besides, your boy-thing might be a big fat-ass too, but he can't hardly be with you when you're like this, right? Isn't he embarrassed for you or something? In case you haven't noticed, you've gotten pretty huge. And sure, maybe he's open-minded or some kind of shit like that. You weren't that skinny or anything when you two assholes found each other, either._

_But, I mean. Just. Come on, now. You might be the oldest of us, brother, but you don't get to tell me that I can't tell you when you've got your head crammed up your fat as fuck-all ass. And what about Dean? How can you two even fuck each other when you're both the size of some former Soviet bloc states?_ —Oh, all of the things that Jimmy doesn't know about Cas's sex life. Oh, the things that he can't even imagine.

All that's the tirade that he gave Cas over Christmas break, after watching Cas absolutely binge over dinner, then put away four slices of cake, a huge bowl of ice cream, and a plate of cookies. Or it's a close enough approximation of that tirade, anyway.

And hot on its heels come all kinds of other voices—Mother fretting and asking Cas if he doesn't want to just cut back a little bit, or maybe go on a weight management retreat over the summer. Father huffing as he asks whether or not Cas really needs that fourth slice of pie, that fifth helping of ice cream, yet another one of Anna's brownies (never mind how she made an extra pan of them specifically for Cas). All of the ever-so- _concerned_ friends who support him and Dean, in theory, but who just _worry so much_ about poor Cas, because unlike Dean, he wasn't really all that chubby when they started this.

And then, on top of everyone else, comes some imaginary doctor, droning on and on and on about the health risks this, and the side-effects that, and has Cas even looked at his blood pressure lately—all to the meter Cas rubs out, dragging his hand up and down his cock in long, smooth strokes—and never mind that Cas keeps active enough, so it's not that much higher than 'normal' and not even hypertensive, technically. Talking down to him, as though Cas might be too stupid not to know these things himself, with an air like _but why would you choose this for yourself, how dare you not agree with my assessment of your situation_ —

And Cas gasps, feels his whole body heaving from the heat unfurling in the pit of his stomach. Fuck all of them for their presumption.

Cas's breath hitches in his throat as he tightens his grip on his cock, slides his palm and fingers around to grab it full-on, digs his nails hard into his flesh—he kneads into his handful (and then-some) of fat as he lets these dialogues keep playing out in his mind. The made-up doctor, in particular, sticks out as a special guest, but Cas can't quite fathom why. He tries looking everywhere he can for answers, but only if it's in his reflection. The rest of the world's incidental, at best, and none of his concern, besides.

Cas stares himself down in the mirror, only lets himself break that eye-contact so he can look down at the impossible reflections of his thighs and stomach—the latter all pendulous and soft and sagging while the formers huddle together, jiggling and shuddering if Cas so much as shifts his weight around the bed. He watches himself palm at his stomach, still keeping it out of his way enough to jerk off. He watches his flesh tremble and he watches how the bed shifts underneath of him, how his whole body shakes each time he bucks his hips even a little bit.

And for the first time, Cas gets this inkling, one that makes him shiver as he jerks and twists his pudgy fingers all along his shaft, one that makes the hairs on the back of his neck all stand on end. He wants to hear these words falling out of Dean's lips, wants Dean to take them out of doctors' mouths, and parents' mouths, and friends' mouths, and Jacob's mouth—he's fine with being in control, at least in bed, but Dean could take the reins for once, assert himself like this—Cas digs his thumb into his dick, kneads into it, tries to drag this out for as long as he can—but how can he keep going when his stomach's turning itself over and over, generating heat enough to start a fire?

Cas grips on tight for this stroke, dawdles over it as he draws his hand up his dick—he digs into his stomach so hard, he already knows he's leaving marks behind—and when he comes—when he heaves a groan and everything burns white—it's to the thought of Dean pinning him to the mattress with shame alone. Snapping at him about how fat he's getting, and how he isn't eating fast enough, he's making a pig out of himself everywhere else, so why can't he fucking eat like one.

Cas doesn't understand it, but then again, he doesn't have to—not really. Not yet, anyway. For now, it's good enough to flop back into the wall and lose his fingers in brushing over his rolls of flab.


	4. Don't Mind Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Apparently, Cas has gone and gotten a Thing for destroying his clothes in public settings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompts, "food" and "teasing" at kink_bingo (a pair, as part of a simultaneous double-line bingo); "overabundance" (belatedly for chubwinchesters's summer bingo); "sexual frustration" for homebrewbingo; and "ate too much" at cottoncandy_bingo.

As he carts over the two trays full up of food—balancing them oh-so-precariously on his chubby arms—and as he sets them down, and as he sits opposite Cas at the dining hall table, Dean's still not sure about this. About any of this. Especially not the part where he's pretty sure Cas has overtaxed the clothes he's wearing more than enough without stuffing himself to bursting in the way that he wants.

On the docket for this round of feeding, Cas has had Dean get him: four breakfast sandwiches (three with fried eggs, sausage, and cheese, and one that's the same as the others, save that it has bacon); two orders of French fries and two orders of tater tots; a cheeseburger (with bacon); a huge helping of chicken fingers; three chocolate pudding cups; three bags of cheddar-flavored Sun Chips; four brownies with chocolate fudge frosting; a chocolate chocolate chip muffin; and three huge chocolate chip cookies. And a Coke. Just because. He says it helps digestion; Dean says that it just plain tastes good.

Dean's not exactly shy about food, how much he loves it, or about eating it—or about how much he loves abusing the confines of his and Cas's meal-plans to get more of it—but just thinking about that roster makes him feel kind of sick. He probably couldn't get through it. But on the other hand, Cas has always been braver than Dean and more willing to push his own limits or well past them.

And it's not that Dean doubts Cas or his dedication—not when he's spent the past several weeks putting food away at a dizzying pace, diligently chasing after the goal of packing another twenty pounds onto himself by graduation (from the weigh-in before last), breaking three-sixty-five by the end of spring break, then breaking a full four-hundred pounds by New Year's. The way Cas eats, they might not need to worry about meeting those goals, but about exceeding them too quickly, for all Cas might not think that such a thing is possible.

Even though today's a special circumstance, Cas never fails to remind Dean of a black hole or a bottomless pit—a black hole or a bottomless pit who has a devious spark behind his blue eyes as he drums his pudgy fingers along the kaiser roll his sausage-fried-egg-and-cheese sandwich sits on, as he shuffles in his chair and it groans underneath him. Underneath his soft, jiggling thighs and his ass that spills over the sides.

It's just that they're doing this in _public_. It's just that Cas ordered delivery from three different places before hauling Dean up to the Pub—the dining hall-cum-student gathering place that they usually frequent, since it's not all the way across campus like Brooks or at the bottom of the hill like Garrison. Not to mention that it has better food—and it's just that the buttons on Cas's shirt and jeans—both of which used to be Dean's—already strain to keep closed around the rolls and rolls of pale flab lining his belly.

It's just that maybe Dean's jealous that Cas's weight has finally surpassed his own, and maybe he's impatient about waiting for Cas to get bigger still. Somehow, Dean's weight has dropped to three-fifty-five—he hasn't lost any inches, he's even gained one on his hips, but he's still inexplicably down a whole eleven pounds from Christmas—while Cas's has only continued to climb. It makes Dean's throat go dry, just watching him eat and thinking about it. Thinking about how fat he's getting. Gotten. Whatever the verb there ought to be.

As of last week, Cas weighs three-hundred and fifty-eight pounds. His waist clocks in at seventy-five inches, and his hips at just over ninety-one. The difference between their bodies isn't huge, just yet, but Cas is still visibly, notably fatter than Dean. He's bigger than Dean's even considered getting and it's mostly thanks to this fact that they've ruled out Mexico as a spring break option. Instead, Cas planned out a two-week tour of the best all-you-can-eat buffets that he could find.

And that's all why they're in the Pub right now. That's why Dean gets to sit back and watch as Cas devours his sandwich and its fraternal twin with bacon in under five minutes, pausing only to lick the runny yolk off of his finger. That's why Cas wants so badly to test the integrity of his current too-small hand-me-downs, and why he's dragged Dean out of their dorm on a Saturday afternoon that they could've spent watching TV and only moving to get more food.

Hell, Cas wouldn't have needed to move at all—Dean's more than happy to wait on him.

Apparently, Cas has gone and gotten a Thing for destroying his clothes in public settings. For flipping people off by being too fat for what he's wearing, where they can see him and they have to deal with it, and being perfectly content with his body and his flab all over their potentially fucked up faces.

This isn't even the first he's eaten today; this is lunch. For breakfast, Cas chowed down on half-a-pack of bacon, a four-egg omelette with ham and cheese (made up in butter and the bacon fat), and two slices of leftover Chicago deep-dish pizza. In between napping it off, he sucked down a whole blender full of chocolate milkshake—made special for him with whole milk, six scoops of chocolate ice cream, hot fudge instead of the Hershey's syrup, and two huge scoops of his chocolate-flavored weight gain powder. He should be full by now. Like, seriously.

But instead, Cas digs into another sausage-egg-and-cheese sandwich. He pauses halfway into it to lick the yolk off his fingers and suck some Coke out of his extra-large cup. But that pause doesn't last long before he digs in again. Dean can't even fathom how many calories Cas must be up to, by now—trying to think about that makes his head spin, gets his breath stuck in his throat even more than the sight of Cas, once again, shoving his chunky fingers between his lips, trying to lick off all the yolk and all the cheese. By the time he's done, Cas's hands are so clean that Mom wouldn't even make him wash them again before letting him sit at the dinner table—and he just has to tease Dean by dragging his fingertips through the trails of yolk and cheese left on the wax paper from his last sandwich.

"Dean?" he says, voice deadly sober, for all he follows it up by sucking on his fingers again. "This isn't going to work as planned unless you participate as well. You might not be the feedee, this time around, but the feeder's role is every bit as important. Please don't slack off on it?" Sighing heavily, he slouches, leans back in his chair. His calves knock into Dean's and they all jiggle, and Cas looks about as bothered as a cucumber, just brushing a hand up and down the plush curve of his stomach, sinking his fingers into his flesh (but deftly maneuvering around his buttons).

"I know it's difficult for you," he says, rubbing a gentle circle over his belly. "Trying to take charge of this situation, even in a roleplaying capacity, when you prefer to be submissive. You don't have to go too much outside of your comfort zone—and if I do push your limits too much, please, don't hesitate to safe-word—but… Encourage me. Dare me. Joke around with me. Egg me on. Tell me what you'd like to see me eat. Try to humiliate me, if you think it might be fun… are you getting the picture yet?"

Dean guesses that he does, and that he wouldn't hate it if Cas just licked melted cheese off of his fingers all fucking day, but he doesn't have much time to mull anything over. Before he can speak, Cas's phone goes off—and it's the delivery guy from Kim And Eden's, the glatt kosher Chinese place a few towns over, in Denton Harbor. At least it's not a horribly demanding or time-consuming encounter. All Dean has to do is meet him down at the gate behind the Pub, sign for Cas's parents' credit card, and tote the way-too-heavy bags back inside.

For all he doesn't time it, Dean's still caught off-guard when he returns to the table. There shouldn't have been enough time, he thinks, for Cas to eat that much. By the time he sits down to start unpacking the bag, though, Cas has gone and polished off the last of his breakfast sandwiches and most of the tater tots. He's kicked back, rubbing his stomach and taking slow, deep breaths in between sips of Coke. And Dean doesn't trust that look for a fucking second—he even rolls his eyes and snorts as he takes out a plastic container of almond chicken and one of chicken fried rice. Cas just shrugs, giving him a wobbly-looking pout and faux-innocent, lost kitten eyes.

"It's really cute how you think I'm totally buying that, Gorgeous," Dean tells him, snorting, taking out the bag of egg rolls—eight of them, in total. "You're not slowing down yet and you know it."

Even with how much food Cas has had today—even with the container of chicken and egg noodles that Dean takes out next—Cas has increased his capacity some absurd amount in the past two semesters. Mostly without even meaning to do it. And now that he's got his mind set on it—on continuing to vacuum up more and more food, on getting so much bigger than either of them ever thought of, until he brought up how he wants to get up to four-hundred pounds—Cas goes after every part of it with ice cold determination. Nothing stands in his way. However full he might be getting, he's got some plan or another lurking underneath that fond, placid smile. Maybe one to keep them here all day.

"True," Cas admits and jostles his belly, makes all that beautiful flesh jiggle and Dean's whole mouth go dry just from watching him. Cas shrugs, muffles a burp behind one of his hands. "I'm at least content to the point where I'd hardly _need_ to eat anything else. But the whole point here is to _stuff_ me, and I don't feel we've accomplished that goal quite yet."

Dean snickers and slides the first quart of egg-drop soup over to Cas. Follows it up with one of the huge bags of fried wontons, and shivers as Cas crunches them up, pours them into the container. He takes a moment to slosh everything up with a spoon, getting the wontons mixed in deep, down to the bottom—and once it's all done up to his satisfaction, Cas licks off the spoon. Licks it cleaner than he licked his fingers. Dean holds his breath, leans closer and rests his forearms on the table, fixes his eyes on Cas—waits for him to dip the spoon back in so he can put on more of a show with his tongue. But Cas just leans back and drinks the soup right out of the container. Dean gasps, sucks his own stomach in, feels like his eyes might bulge out of his skull.

As he drains the quart, Cas only comes up for air five times—Dean can't help counting, because each of those times is a moment when his massive double-chin doesn't get to billow out and quiver from how hard, how fast he's drinking. When he finally comes up, he doesn't wipe the soup-mustache off his upper lip; he licks it off, and motions for Dean to hand him one of the cookies. He's had so many salty things that the Coke isn't sweet enough to balance it out anymore—and Dean feels him on that count, but he's still not prepared to watch Cas gnaw through his cookie faster than the campus's squirrels gnaw through leftover fries. He shudders again from watching Cas work, from the chill that jolts up his spine and the hot, sticky something that drops into the pit his stomach, blooms out until Dean doesn't think he could eat anything himself.

"You might want to go back to the dormitory," Cas says with a sigh, licking the chocolate residue off his fingers. "Get a book, or some homework, or something to occupy yourself… I'm certain that I'll need to pause a few more times during this session…"

"Well, I don't know how you think you're gonna get through all of this on your own." Dean huffs, eyeing the spread, arching an eyebrow as Cas polishes off the tater tots and motions for one of the brownies, sets in on wolfing it down. And there's more food coming—Cas still has orders from the Roadhouse Diner and Vitelli's, the family owned Italian place down in town. "I mean," Dean says with a sigh, "if you ordered all this thinking about feeding both of us? Then thanks for that, but it'd be cool if you asked next time?"

Cas doesn't pause his work on the brownie, just shakes his head. Once he's done, he clarifies: "You're welcome to any of the leftovers, if there are some. There probably will be. But I got all of this for me, intentionally." To the question of why, he just shrugs. "I don't think that should need clarification, but… It's a personal test. I want to get a better idea of how much I can take in one sitting—and the potential destruction of my clothing is just a nice side-effect."

Exactly how much Cas can take turns out to be rather a lot. Once the brownie's gone, he drains the second thing of egg drop soup without missing a beat. The cheeseburger's next, and while Cas finishes it, Dean has to run out to meet Ash for the round of Roadhouse takeout: three orders of curly fries, three more of sweet potato fries, a double-order of zucchini sticks, a whole apple pie, three double-cheeseburgers with bacon and fried eggs on top (one of which Dean steals for himself, once Cas says that it's fine).

It's a similar story, once the order from Vitelli's shows up: two eggplant parmesan platters (with penne noodles as a side); two quarts of their homemade minestrone; an enormous tray of lasagna and another one of baked four-cheese ziti; more breadsticks than Dean cares to count (for all he nabs two of them and a little helping of the lasagna); and for dessert, a platter of chocolate-chip cannolis, thirteen of them in total.

Dean's right, in the end: Cas can't finish everything that he's laid out for himself, but damned if he doesn't try his best. True to his word, Cas pauses a good handful of times, subjecting himself to belly-rubs, trying to regain control of his breathing, when it starts getting short. He manages that, somewhat, but he never really manages to heave the same kind of deep breaths that he can get when his stomach isn't grinding up against his lungs. Dean tries to encourage him, but all the words feel thick and stilted and awkward, coming out of his mouth.

"Yeah, that's it, just another bite… Come on, Gorgeous, don't you think you want another cannoli? Or how about a brownie? You've been on another salty kick… Awww, Cas, man. Don't go quitting on me now… Can. Cas, can you please just get the frosting on your fingers and lick it off again? Just… Please do that for me? Pretty please?"—Cas doesn't say _boo_ to any of it, and whenever Dean asks for anything, he obliges. When the frosting issue comes up, he doesn't get his fingers covered from eating one of the brownies; he drags his index finger through the chocolate fudge, gets it coated in sugary goodness, and licks it all off slowly, teasingly, letting slip breathy, whiny little moans.

The worst part of it all is how coy Cas insists on playing—how he spends the whole time insisting that this isn't that much, dangling the idea of him eating more, and more, and more over Dean's head when he's bound to hit his limits and could always hit them on the next bite. He knows what he's doing, too. The devious glint in his eyes screams that, every time that Dean gapes at his audacity, at the next thing that he intends to somehow cram into his Bag of Holding stomach. Halfway through the zucchini sticks, though, they hit definite progress. Something Cas can't cover up or argue against. Cas steals the deepest breath he's gotten for at least forty-five minutes, and when he lets it out in a sigh— _rrrrip! pop!_

One of the buttons on Cas's shirt finally comes off. The two ends of the fabric separate, bowing out in curves around the bit of soft, pale flesh they leave exposed, and the strain's visible everywhere else, too. The shirt bunches up around Cas's belly, his hips and all his rolls of flab—there's a strip of his under-belly showing underneath the hem, with even a hint of his bellybutton peeking out and it becoming that much more obvious that he's had to button up his jeans below his sizable paunch. The hard taut curve of his stuffed stomach presses out against the buttons that keep holding on for dear life. Blushing bright pink, Cas looks down at himself, brushes a finger around in little circles—then takes another deep breath, sucks in his gut, and lets it flop back out again, and— _rrrrip! pop! rrrrip! pop!_

Another two buttons join the first one, and with a contented smile, Cas rests his hand over the exposed flesh, kneads his fingers into his flab and the hard places where how much he's stuffed himself shows. And with how long it's taken to get to this point in the first place? Dean can't help wondering if Cas knows how to sew, if he's gone and reinforced that shirt, just to make Dean wait.

By the time it gets dark out—by the time Cas finally asks Dean to pack up the leftovers so they can go back to the dorm—the only button left on Cas's shirt is the one over his chest. Hefting himself around on his chair looks and sounds like it's giving him trouble. He grunts, and sighs, and accidentally gets himself burping, then hiccuping from the effort. Trying to suck in his gut's a similar story: he's too over-full to get it quite where he wants it, too stuffed to suck in as much as he needs to—but by some miracle, he manages to wriggle around and haul his jeans up, manages to get the button up to his waist.

Which doesn't last at all. One heaved sigh and Cas rips the thing right off. It clatters to the floor with a _rrrrip! ping!_ , leaves Cas grinning like a fat cat in a canary cage.

Dean's not sure how they manage getting Cas back to the dorm, even with him arching his back and waddling slowly. Dean's not sure how he makes it to bed on his own and relaxes there until Dean's done putting away their food (and labeling it so their housemates won't go and eat any). Dean's not sure how both of them manage to fit on the mattress—not that he's arguing, because it's cold tonight, and Cas is warm, and sharing the bed's the best position for Dean to rub the mound of Cas's engorged belly.

The one thing that Dean's sure of, though, is that even if all this was a special occasion, Cas isn't going to have any kind of problem getting to three-sixty-five by the time they get back from spring break. Hell, at this rate? Dean'll eat a goddamn salad if Cas doesn't top three-sixty-five by the time they leave.


	5. Never Mind The Details (Let me get them for you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Fuck, I know it's only two weeks, but… I bet I can feed you up better than that. All you've gotta do is give me permission to call the shots about this, okay? Then do whatever I say, eat whatever I put in front of you—with all the standard safe-word rights as usual—and I bet you'll come back with at **least** an extra ten."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used are: "obedience" for kink_bingo and "building/creating something" for cottoncandy_bingo.

By the time they're getting ready to leave for spring break, Dean and Cas have encountered two major changes: first, they find a new rhythm, one that follows them to almost every meal, with Cas telling Dean what he wants to eat and Dean encouraging him, egging him on, telling him when he's not eating enough; and second, Cas tips the scales at a full three-hundred and sixty-five pounds, putting a ten-pound difference between his weight and Dean's. For all he's dropped a few more pounds, Dean's measurements still haven't changed, while Cas's keep ballooning, while Cas keeps getting bigger and softer and more stretch-marked up underneath Dean's fingers.

Dean barely makes it through taking Cas's measurements, he's so distracted by Cas's flesh—how warm it is when he brushes his hands over Cas's curves, how the angry red ridges of his stretch-marks stand out on like tiger stripes all along his pale skin, how his whole gut jiggles from Dean nudging him just the smallest bit. When Dean gets himself together enough to wrap the tape around his boyfriend, Cas's growth makes Dean's jaw drop, makes his stomach turn and his dick twitch. His waist clocks in at seventy-nine inches and his hips, straining the confines of their measuring tape, check in at ninety-five, and Cas celebrates this fact by gorging himself on sixteen-thousand three-hundred-and-twenty calories of ice cream.

They know that's how many calories he packs away—on top of his full day of take-out and Dean's chocolate cupcakes with the fudge frosting and the mint-cream centers—because Dean does the math while Cas starts in on his first two-quart tub of Extreme Chocolate Moose Tracks. They've got three of those, six pints of Mint Chocolate Cookie, and three pints of Peanut Butter Cup stored in the freezer—and, as he tells Cas, they can't very well leave all of those tasty treats alone for two weeks. Meg might decide to spite Dean by eating them, or giving them to her not-Cas friends. Cas snickers, shaking his head fondly, and retorts that he hardly needs a reason to pig out, but he appreciates Dean's effort.

Watching Cas work through the ice cream makes Dean's breath hitch in his throat more than once. He tears through the first two-quart tub so quickly that Dean's dick twitches just from that, just from the thought that, even wincing through a round of brain-freeze, Cas can put away almost two-thousand calories in under twenty minutes. He slumps against the wall, mattress and box-spring whining underneath his weight every time he shifts around the smallest bit; he rests the tub on the crest of his belly, so he has to move less when he brings the spoon up to his mouth; and his eyes glaze over as he eats, and eats, and eats. Occasionally, he'll huff or whine for Dean to rub his belly—which he always does, grinning as he sinks his hands into Cas's taut stomach, works his fingers over all his flab to the tune of Cas's heavy sighs.

But mostly, Cas just eats whatever Dean puts in front of him. Or drinks it, Dean supposes, based on the handful of times when Cas ends up tipping back cartons of melted ice cream. Once, he needs a break, and dozes off for long enough that Dean manages to stir in two scoops of their favorite weight gain powder. It adds in another eight hundred calories, nudging him just over the marker of seventeen-thousand for this session alone. Never mind the six- or seven-thousand that he packed away earlier. So, really, it's no surprise that Dean has to jerk himself off, watching Cas wake up and drain the pint he put the powder in, watching him scrape his fingers along the inside and lick them clean again. Just like how it's no surprise when Cas ends up yanking off his shirt, complaining that it's uncomfortably tight and making it harder for him to eat.

Hell, if anything? Dean's gonna have a heart attack from how long Cas holds off on this. It's no surprise because the shirt was tight enough before he made himself all immense and bloated, taking up enough of the bed on his own that rubbing his stomach means wriggling between his splayed legs. It's no surprise that he's wearing the waistbands of his pants and shorts underneath his massive under-belly, either. Nothing they own fits Cas anymore. Even the biggest of Dean's old t-shirts strain on the flabby expanse of his middle, ride up on his huge, doughy stomach despite all of his attempts at yanking the hem back down, and he's been stuck wearing sweatpants and pajama bottoms for the past two weeks because their elastic waistbands actually accommodate his girth, because he can get them on without having to hold his breath or bust them open.

They can't be that comfortable, Dean figures, with how the fabric's started stretching to the limit on his expanding ass, his trembling thunder-thighs, but Cas won't buy new clothes until after spring break. Seems pointless, he says, when he'll (hopefully) just outgrow them by the time they get back. Dean can't argue with this logic, and not for nothing, but he's _certain_ that Cas will need new clothes when they get back. Cas wants him to play feeder, and Dean Winchester doesn't do anything he cares about half-assed.

Not that the discomfort from his clothes slows Cas down at all. Not that he thinks about stopping, even when his fingers get sticky from him licking off so much of the melted ice cream and even when he can't keep his shirt down from his stomach pushing back against it so much. Toward the end of his second tub—with half the pints of Mint Chocolate Cookie and all of the Peanut Butter Cups behind him, too—with his face turning red and his breaths coming in shorter and shorter bursts, Cas groans for another belly rub. After a few sighing moments of his massage—after giving Dean enough time to marvel at how even the dip around Cas's waist is stretched out, how it's pushed out so far that there's barely any difference between his upper- and under-bellies—Cas has something to confess.

Cas whispers so softly that Dean has to stretch out across his belly to get close enough to hear him. And what he has to say is simple. It's what he wants to get out of spring break, how much weight he intends to gain before they get back to classes—and Dean can't help scoffing at it, shaking his head.

"Only five pounds, Gorgeous?" he huffs, kneading at a place along Cas's belly's fullest curve, where he feels packed the tightest. "Fuck, I know it's only two weeks, but… I bet I can feed you up better than that. All you've gotta do is give me permission to call the shots about this, okay? Then do whatever I say, eat whatever I put in front of you—with all the standard safe-word rights as usual—and I bet you'll come back with at _least_ an extra ten. I bet I'll get you up to eating an eighty-ounce bacon cheeseburger in one sitting."

Cas snickers and smiles one of his enigmatic little smiles. Downs an enormous spoonful—with a huge chunk of fudge-swirl in it—before he says, "I don't know that the safe-word's going to be necessary. Permission granted in full, Dean. Whatever you point at to eat, I'll eat it. But here's my condition for it…" He moans as Dean works over a particularly taut spot, then says, "We leave the scale and the tape-measure behind. You're not allowed to weigh me until we get back."

***

For all he wants to just abuse the power he's got now—as much as he wants to feed Cas 'til he bursts—Dean starts slow in the morning and gets Cas started with a breakfast of the last of their food in the fridge: six rashers of bacon and a five-egg omelette made up with cheese and diced peppers. Cas doesn't even think, much less pause; he eats the food as easily as breathing and in a true show of how accustomed he's gotten to eating like this, he's lucid enough to waddle down to the parking lot without Dean helping him, without so much as Dean's hand on the small of his plump back. Which is good, because Dean needs to heave around the bags for both of them (plus the box with Cas's stash of candy and snacks in it), so Cas won't waste any of his precious calories.

Even knowing that Cas probably didn't lose too many calories from the short walk to the elevator, then to Baby's front seat, Dean hits the drive-through at McDonald's. Partly, it's so he can get himself a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich meal, since he didn't eat before they left—but mostly, it's so he can stuff Cas up with his second breakfast: five sausage, egg, and cheese sandwiches, five orders of hash-browns, an order of butter and syrup-drenched hotcakes with a side of bacon, and an extra-large cup of Coke. Against his better judgment, Dean keeps the music turned down, all so he can appreciate the glances he sneaks of Cas in the rearview mirror, all so Cas can hear him when he says to keep going, keep eating, keep going, come on it doesn't look like he's even close to done with his food yet…

"I mean, seriously," Dean says, unable to keep himself from smirking. "What part of, 'keep going,' 's so hard for you to understand, Gorgeous? …Don't be such a wuss—only two more bites and you'll be done with that one… And hey, look at it this way. You've only got two more left after that one, Cas, and you can wolf all that down just fine, can't you? Don't let me down, Chunky… Don't quit on me now, Tubby, you said you'd eat whatever I told you to eat and I'm telling you to eat all of that…"

Every word makes Dean's stomach twist with a hot, guilty rush. The same feeling—all hot and sticky and scratching at Dean's nerves—surges up the back of his neck and makes his cheeks flush scarlet not just from watching Cas eat, but from the thought that Cas is only eating this pile of crap, no matter how full he's getting, _because Dean told him to eat it_. Dean gasps at the reflection of Cas kneading one hand into his bloated stomach (already starting to strain the confines of his t-shirt), at the sight of him licking the last remnants of cheese and grease off the other hand's fingers—and Dean whines when Cas announces, _Done! And thoroughly stuffed, for the moment, I might add_ , feels all the knots in his own stomach pull tighter and yank on his guts. Still, he looks away from the road—if only briefly—so he smile full-on at Cas, tell him he did a good job, he's free to kick back and relax a little.

All of that breakfast keeps Cas sated for a while—not to mention knocking him out into a nap as he massages his own belly—but when Cas rouses an hour later, it's all but right into devouring some of his snacks. Dean gives him twenty minutes to breathe, to call Anna and let her know they've left for their adventure—then he reminds Cas that the snack-stash is calling his name, just waiting for him to break into it, and tosses out a suggestion that those king size Snickers bars sure look good by Dean. Cas huffs in amusement and tears right into one, takes his time eating it, but still gets the whole thing crammed into his gut pretty quickly.

He gets a longer break after that, but that's only because of what Dean's got up his sleeve for lunch. They pull into Miriam's, the first all-you-can-eat buffet on Cas's list before they've even made it to their first motel, and as he watches Cas wriggle through the door (turning slightly to the side and sucking in his stomach, even though he doesn't really need to) and as he watches Cas thunder to one of the half-circle booths along the wall, Dean resolves to stuff Cas enough that moving's five times harder. He's gonna need to arch his back by the time they're done here or Dean'll let his boyfriend off easy for dinner.

In pursuit of making Cas ache from being so stuffed, Dean starts Cas off as big as he can. Tells him not to eat until Dean says so and uses that leeway to get Cas four plates full up of food. One plate for the baked macaroni and cheese, one plate heaped up with a pile of lasagna, one plate for hand-breaded fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and one with french fries and buttered egg noodles.

For himself, Dean just piles up a plate with a little bit of everything—including some of the eggplant parmesan, because Cas loves that stuff and as much as Dean's not its biggest fan? he's a fan of teasing Cas—and as he settles back into the booth, he shunts two rolls off of his plate and onto one of Cas's. Smiling, he tells Cas to dig in, and it takes Dean a few bites of his lasagna to notice that Cas hasn't even picked up his fork. So, Dean wrinkles his nose and asks what's up, or if he stuttered, because Cas is like an athlete in training now, and he's not just gonna be able to chow down on the Biggerson's Big Mouth Blue Ribbon Bacon Burger—or get any of their fabulous prizes—if he isn't getting ready for it.

Cas just blinks at the spread in front of him, then up at Dean, swallowing thickly before he says, "You expect me to eat _all_ of this?" In response, Dean shrugs, and nods, and says of course he does, that's why he set it down in front of Cas—which at least gets Cas to pick up his damn utensils. Not that he starts in on everything right off the bat—one cautious bite of his lasagna, some prodding at the macaroni, he mutters that he's still feeling pretty full from breakfast, is Dean sure they can't find some kind of compromise here—but all Dean has to do to make Cas eat is remind him that they had an agreement, that Cas is supposed to eat whatever Dean puts in front of him, _remember_.

With just that word put out there—with just a snort and an arch of Dean's eyebrows—Cas sighs and starts tearing into his lunch. He shovels the food into his mouth, wolfs it down without concern for the other patrons or who could be watching—he barely even seems to chew and he doesn't start slowing down until he's cleaned two plates. The only reason Dean knows that Cas is enjoying his meal instead of just inhaling it? Is the series of noises that he lets slip—all the breathy moans and, partway into his third plate, whining at Dean that his stomach's getting packed pretty tight, could he please get a belly rub. Of course, Dean obliges, but he makes up for that by getting Cas a fifth plate from the buffet, once he's had a little rest from clearing off the first four, never mind the two trips he makes up to the ice cream bar and the two huge sundaes Cas ends up devouring.

True to what he wanted to get out of this, Dean gets Cas stuffed so full that he can hardly move. They have to wait for almost forty minutes before he's good to get up, and as he waddles back out to the Impala, Cas has to arch his back, let his stomach lead the way. It's amazing, how perky they've gotten it, all in the space of this feeding session—it sags so much, when Cas isn't stuffed to the brim, but as he sighs and maneuvers out the door, his belly sticks out further than it ever has, pushing his fat out so nobody can miss any of it. Even Cas's round of gorging himself in the Pub didn't get his belly looking so full and taut as this, and he spends the whole drive to the motel moaning and sighing as he rubs himself down.

Fortunately for the two of them, their motel isn't that far away. Half-an-hour later, Dean checks them in and gets Cas into bed to sleep off the haze of food; he flops down to the mattress (bed groaning slightly underneath him), hits the pillow like a bag of bricks, and conks out into a deep, well-fed nap. Throughout the lazy afternoon, he manages to rouse Cas, get him to down a candy bar or two and a bag of peanut butter M&M's, but these mini-sessions end with Cas crashing out that much harder. By the time Dean's itching for dinner, Cas has barely moved from the bed, as though he's pinned back to the mattress by the sheer weight of his belly. When Dean tries to bring the subject up, he whines and says of course he's hungry, but that doesn't mean he wants to move for it.

So instead of hitting up a buffet, the way he'd planned? Dean hits up the Italian place they passed on the way into the motel and orders enough take-out to set his own head spinning: two orders of deep fried calimari, two orders of cheese ravioli, two orders of cheese gnocchi, linguine with extra sauce and extra meatballs, the House Combo (chicken parmigiana, more ravioli, lasagna, and hand-breaded eggplant rollatini stuffed with four different kinds of cheeses), and for dessert, a whole tiramisu and a baker's dozen of chocolate-covered cannoli.

Cas groans, just hearing Dean put the order in, and Dean smirks, knowing that even Cas can't eat all of this in one sitting. Put a dent in it? Sure, he can do that, but there's no way he could finish all of this, even if they worked at it all night. Spending two-and-a-half hours on their food maxes out Cas's limits, and they still end up with a pretty decent spread left over—some of the linguine, some of the chicken and the rollatini, four cannolis, one order of the ravioli, and about half the tiramisu. But, hey, they've got a fridge in this room, and Dean can't cook up one of his usual feasts in just a microwave. His big-ass boyfriend's gonna need something nice to complement a breakfast of McDonald's. Collecting leftovers for Cas to munch on just makes sense. Anyway, it's not as though they won't get eaten sooner or later.

And Dean's not just certain of that because he wakes Cas up at three AM for two more slices of the tiramisu.

***

For all he's certain of getting Cas fed up properly on the leftovers, Dean only means for their take-out dinner to be a one-time thing, but by accident, it becomes the rhythm of their trip. Every morning, he gets Cas working on the leftovers while he pops out to IHOP or McDonald's to get him something else to go with it—multiple orders of something else, at all times. Cas lazes about, once Dean's said that he can stop, and works on some of his snacks in between rounds of belly rubs and lazy making out and runs for more snacks when the stash runs low and maybe even getting a blow job, if Dean feels generous and if Cas has been especially good about his eating.

If Cas _hasn't_ been especially good about his eating (or if he breaks out the plaintive puppy eyes for something sweet that goes down easier than a Snickers bar), Dean makes another run—to Dairy Queen or whatever the nearest ice cream place is, and he picks Cas up at least two super-sized milkshakes, which he fixes up with three scoops of weight gain powder, each, before Cas is allowed to drink them. Then, there's more lazing around until Dean helps to heft Cas out of bed and drags him to a buffet for lunch. Sometimes, it's down-home comfort food. Other times, it's Tex-Mex. Still other times, it's Pan-Asian—but constant among them is the fact that Dean waits on his boyfriend, piling food up on plates without making Cas move, and Cas, in turn, eats at least six plates of lunch and two servings of dessert, after which it's back to the motel for more belly rubs and lazing around until they order in dinner and stuff Cas full of that.

Maybe Dean can't weigh or measure Cas, but he can _feel_ his boyfriend getting bigger and _fatter_ from all the work they're putting into this, from all of the work that they're putting into _him_. He has to spread his legs further any time he tries to straddle Cas's widening hips and strain his arms in any attempts at holding Cas. He has to work from the side or stretch out on top of Cas, just to give him belly rubs, because reaching around his massive thighs is getting way too difficult. He has to bite his lip and act like he's focusing on the feeding sessions any time that Cas wriggles out of his shirt because it's too tight and making it too hard for him to keep heaving his breaths, much less eat himself into the next round of stupor. How much Dean tells him to eat gets easier for him, too—at least, he complains about it hurting less, for all he still demands that Dean massage his taut, stuffed stomach.

By the time spring break's winding down, by the time they roll into the lunch rush at Biggerson's, intent on sitting Cas down for the Big Mouth Blue Ribbon Bacon Burger Challenge, none of Cas's shirts fit him any kind of properly anymore—which definitely says something, since all of them are hand-me-downs from Dean in the first place. As he waddles into the restaurant, Cas tries to keep his hem down enough for what he considers modesty—meaning that as little of his pale, flabby under-belly shows itself off as possible—and Dean tries to keep his mind on anything but the thought of blowing Cas in the bathroom, maneuvering around Cas's gut just to get at his dick and how difficult that's gotten, even when he's flat on his back and trying to hold his belly out of the way.

Cas has his own set of problems, once they settle into a half-circle booth. Chief among them: he can't help eyeing all the food that wanders past their table—and Dean smirks, knowing exactly why Cas can't take his eyes off of everybody else's meals. They didn't have any leftovers from last night's feast of Chinese food, and Dean hasn't let Cas eat barely anything yet today. Just two sausage, egg, and cheese McMuffins to keep him tided over. So much the better for the two of them that he's starving and chomping at the bit to get started: they've got five-hundred dollars, a whole dessert of Cas's choice, and having to pay for a five-pound bacon cheeseburger on the line if Cas can't finish the challenge in one sitting and under an hour.

Not that Dean lacks any kind of faith in his boy, and not that Cas does anything to make him worry. On the contrary, once the burger shows up—to the tune of a waitress ringing a gong and telling everyone that they've got one dangerously brave soul over here, who's up and ready to take the Big Mouth Blue Ribbon Bacon Burger Challenge—Cas digs into it immediately. It's too big for him to use his hands, so he cuts off pieces and shovels them into his mouth. He chews them long enough to savor them, long enough that they won't be hopelessly solid in his stomach (which would have the pieces taking up too much space, making it harder for Cas to get the whole thing down), but he goes at the whole kit and caboodle like a wolf pack taking down a moose. It's amazing, watching him work on what's before him: five pounds of ground chuck, covered in cheddar cheese and half-a-pound of bacon, with lettuce and tomato thrown on for garnish—and two fried eggs, because that's the classic recipe.

Twenty minutes into the challenge and maybe a third of the way into the burger, Cas takes his first break, reaches for his Coke and takes a good, long drink out of it. Whether or not he's right in this belief, he's still of the mind that the carbonation helps him digest his food, breaks it down faster—and from the little beads of sweat forming on his forehead, Cas needs all the help he can get. He's starting to gasp and wheeze, besides that, so Dean pauses his own work on his twice-baked mac-and-cheese. Leans over into Cas's personal space and starts rubbing at his belly, worrying his hands over where Cas's flab is starting to feel full and taut—then glances up at the waitress supervising the challenge to make sure Cas doesn't cheat.

Huffing, giving Dean a wry little smile, she tells him not to fuss too much about that, hon. Belly rubs are completely allowed, they don't count as cheating, and mind you she's only seen one person beat the bacon burger challenge, period? But nobody made any kind of progress, much less made it to the winners' circle, without getting a good little rub-down or five from whoever decided to follow them on this adventure.

When Cas starts up again, a crowd starts gathering around their table (including the waitress who brings Cas two preemptive refills on his Coke), eyes going wide and jaws dropping all around as they watch Cas tear further into his burger. He picks up a rhythm that seems to work enough: wolf down two huge bites, take a sip of Coke, work on another bite while Dean kneads at his flab. His stomach pushes out against the table, wedging up against it so tightly that they end up moving the table back, just to make sure Cas is comfortable—which he isn't until the table's back so far that he has to rock and lean forward, just to get at the burger. Dean sighs and nudges the plate closer to Cas, and forty-five minutes in, when Cas is too full to manage that, Dean lets him slump back into the seat and moves the plate onto the crest of his belly.

He's not allowed to feed Cas himself, but he rubs Cas's stomach without pause for the next fifteen minutes, telling him to keep going, keep going, come on, Gorgeous, just a few more bites, there's only a few more minutes left and he knows that Cas can handle this, right?

It takes more wheezing and burping and moaning than Dean ever bargained for, but Cas finishes the challenge with a full three minutes to spare, and shows off his clean plate and empty mouth to wolf whistles and thunderous applause from the crowd of onlookers. The supervising waitress rings her gong again, which makes all the whooping louder, and some half-an-hour later, when Cas is finally ready to move, they walk out with five-hundred dollars in cold, hard cash and the biggest triple-chocolate layer cake that Dean's ever seen in his life.

He lets Cas flop out into a nap, spend the rest of the day lazing about, and even eases up on him a little for dinner—but that's only because every time he wakes up, Cas gets bites of this cake lovingly spooned down his throat. Dean even rouses him at two in the morning to make sure he packs away two extra slices. By the time Cas is digging into his breakfast, the whole confection's almost entirely gone, and Cas caps off his leftover Chinese food and his I-HOP hotcakes with three rich, decadent slices of cake.

***

Two days after Cas beats the Big Mouth Blue Ribbon Bacon Burger, he and Dean roll back into the parking lot. Dean gets their bags up to the dorm and Cas settles down in front of the TV with a heavy sigh—even taking the elevator, waddling up from the Impala leaves him slightly winded, not to mention itching for something to eat. He manages to keep that urge in check for a while. He massages his belly while Dean unpacks their crap, separates out the laundry and the clothes Cas never got around to wearing, sets the box of snacks down on the coffee table, just in case Cas needs it. Cas snorts and kicks back further on the sofa, tries to just focus on playing with his flab, palming at his expanded stomach, trying to guess how much weigh he's put on since they left—more than five pounds, he's sure of that, but Cas can't really guess, aside from that.

He's certainly upped his stomach's capacity enough. He shouldn't feel hungry again, not so soon. After all, it hasn't been that long since Dean had him eat a breakfast of leftover down-home comfort food (fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and baked macaroni and cheese) and McDonald's (five sausage, egg, and cheese McMuffins, five orders of hash-browns, two orders of hotcakes drenched in syrup and butter, and a huge cup of Coke to help Cas digest all his food and wash it down)—but the stash-box isn't sitting by him ten minutes before he starts ripping into what's left inside it. While Dean handles the unpacking, Cas puts away two king-size Snickers bars and a king-size pack of Reese's peanut butter cups, and starts in on a box of chocolate chip Teddy Grahams. How much he can eat now has to say something good about the final results of this spring break feeding frenzy.

But Dean's intent on making him wait to get a fix on that part. As he heads back out, he promises, hand to God, that they'll do a weigh-in and take Cas's measurements when he gets back—but first, Dean has to make sure that they've got food to eat that's not on the meal plan (not least since they _know_ that, even with buffet-style dining, the meal plan won't nearly cover all of what Cas can eat). And maybe it's just him, but he thinks Cas might like some clothes that actually fit him—shirts and some sweats, at least, since they'll probably need to get his jeans online. Which makes sense, for all Cas wants to know how big he's gotten and for all he wants to know it _now_. On the plus, this gives him more time to eat. Dean's not gone five minutes before Cas is ferreting around all the cabinets, looking for something—anything—they might've forgotten to eat before they left. Anything to supplement Cas's box of graham crackers.

And, fortunately, he finds something: a family-size container of Duncan Hines chocolate fudge frosting, and he devours it, dipping his crackers, his fingers, and an enormous spoon into it, as long as he gets it into his mouth. By the time Dean's back from the shopping, Cas is scraping the inside of the container clean with a little spatula, and licking every last bit of chocolaty goodness off the thing. Dean takes one look at him and bursts out laughing— _so much for all that moaning and bitching about how much you can eat before you'll pop, huh, Tiny?_ , he explains as he puts the food away. He takes long enough that Cas can even polish off the rest of the Teddy Grahams before Dean helps heft him off the sofa and leads him to the bathroom.

Because it's their tradition and how they do things, they weigh Dean in and take his measurements first. The measurements still haven't changed—his waist clocks in at seventy-one-and-a-half inches, and his hips check in at eighty-three—but somehow, he's managed to lose five pounds. His weight's down to three-hundred and fifty pounds, and for a moment, he pales, doesn't react when Cas tells him that he still looks beautiful, that his hips are still full and his ass is still sexy. Even if Dean's not actively trying to gain any weight, his face falls and he sinks onto the toilet seat with a discontented huff and an obnoxious, faux-aggrieved whine about how Cas makes this blubbering out thing look so easy anymore, how so completely unfair it is that he's gotten so good at getting fatter.

He snickers by way of making sure Cas knows that this is a joke, not anything he means in seriousness, and crooks his finger, beckoning Cas over for his own round of checking in. Getting the tape-measure around Cas's waist takes Dean more time than Cas is used to, and reading out the results takes him a moment of gaping like a fish out of water, giving Cas a low, impressed whistle. _Well, Prince Caspian_ , Dean says with a heavy sigh, _you're up to eighty-five inches around in the middle, Cas. That's, uh… I mean. Don't even ask me how we got a whole six new inches packed onto you, Gorgeous, because I don't know? But god **damn** , we are **good** —told ya that I'd make it worth your while to listen to me and eat whatever I said to eat, didn't I?_

More encouraging than those results? Is how Dean can't even get the tape-measure around the entirety of Cas's hips. He tries—he gets _so close_ to wrapping it tight enough that the two ends meet… But Cas feels the cool metal edges digging into his flab, and there's at least half-an-inch (and maybe more) between them. His heart skips two beats and his chest feels lighter at the thought of this: their tape-measure has a maximum capacity of a hundred inches, so Cas's hips must, at least, beat that by half-an-inch. He almost hops right onto the scale from there, but Dean makes him wait again. Apparently, he thought that this might be an issue, and he picked up a new tape-measure while he was out. This one goes up to a hundred-seventy-five inches, and the final verdict is that Cas's hips are up to a hundred-and-one.

Cas heaves a deep breath as he faces the scale, as he bends forward just enough to see it before he climbs on. He heaves another breath and holds it, rubbing one hand up and down his belly's fuller curve and hoping for the best. His heart flutters around on him again, because what if the results don't live up to his impressive measurements—but finally, Dean reads out for him: _Final verdict is…? Three-hundred and eighty pounds-point-five. Well… shit. I… I mean, I knew I was good, and I knew **you** were good, but… Cas, man, that's over a pound a day. How's it feel, Sexy?_

Cas sighs, letting the full expanse of his belly flop and surge forward. He combs his fingers back through his hair, and answers Dean by grabbing his wrist. He hefts Dean up off the toilet and drags him back to their room, kicks the door shut behind them, even if Viktor, Meg, and Corbett haven't gotten back from their own spring break adventures. And shoving Dean down to the bed, Cas snorts and whispers, _You tell **me** how it feels, Dean_.

Judging from how Dean groans when Cas flops down on top of him—judging from how he gasps and whines as Cas grinds down on his hips, heaves and hefts himself around into all kinds of positions, all so he can drop down onto Dean again, drop like an anvil onto his hips, his stomach, edging onto his chest—Cas would say that all the weight he's gained feels pretty good. _Just stay still and enjoy it_ , he says, trailing his pudgy fingers down Dean's full, freckled cheek. _I haven't done any of the bedroom work for two weeks—I'm bored, and I know you want to feel this, don't you?_

Dean nods, and Cas smiles down at him. _Safe-word when or if you need to, but otherwise? Don't move a muscle. You won't get the full impact if you do—and you **want** to really feel me, don't you, Dean?_ (a brief pause, so Cas can lift himself up again; so he can drop onto Dean's stomach to the tune of Dean gasping, groaning; so he can jostle around on top of Dean, pajama bottoms straining around his hips and thighs, and all of his jiggling, rippling flab exposed for want of a shirt that fits.) _Of course you want to feel me, Dean. So while you're holding still? Think about how small and delicate you are beneath me—think about the thirty-pound difference between us, and how much bigger I am since the last time we did this… A full fifty pounds, if I recall correctly?_

Dean groans and nods again, while Cas shifts his weight around atop him—and if Cas were the betting type, he'd bet that Dean's getting hard, dick straining against his belly and his jeans. Cas snickers, smiles, keeps shifting, and drops onto Dean's stomach all over again.


	6. Don't Let Them Get You Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the middle of lathering up his leg, as he's working the pomegranate shower gel up enough for him to shave, something sparks up in the back Dean's head—an idea. Enough of one that he splutters out, "Hey, Cas?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts used here are: "side-effects" for hc_bingo; "shaving/depilation" and "roleplay" for kink_bingo ; and "transformation" for my [100 ficlets](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html) challenge.

In the middle of lathering up his leg, as he's working the pomegranate shower gel up enough for him to shave, something sparks up in the back Dean's head—an idea. Enough of one that he splutters out, "Hey, Cas?"

Dean pauses kneading at his flesh with a sigh, lets himself sink down lower in the tub and soapy water, resting his heel on the faucet so the water can't undo his work. Silently, he waits for Cas to _hmm_ , to nod, for all he doesn't look up from scribbling in his journal. He's hunched over as he writes in it—thighs splayed with his belly nestled tightly between them, bent more in the back than at the waist—resting the book on the edge of the sink and sitting sideways on the toilet seat because he can't really curl his legs up to use them as a desk anymore. There's not enough space for all of him on the toilet, not since their spring break excursion—no matter what angle Cas sits at, some part of him droops over the seat.

Not that Dean's knocking what Cas has to do in order to get his entry for the day taken down. If anything, Dean's into it—after all, it's one Hell of a view, Cas from the side, all three-hundred-and-eighty pounds of him (and maybe a little more, Dean can hope, after being back at school for two weeks)… The sagging, sloping curve of his belly, all soft and spilling around down his enormous, flabby thighs. The pocket of fat that cushions his neck, acts as a pillow for his chin, is so much more prominent here than from the front. The way Cas's stomach strains at even the t-shirts that fit him, leave them clinging to his flesh—never mind the way that this one rides up ever-so-slightly, exposing a pale strip of pudge that crunches over the waistband of his boxer-briefs.

It'd be even cooler if the sight of Cas weren't twisting warm knots up in the pit of Dean's stomach, making his dick threaten to get hard before Cas can take a razor to his balls for him—Hell, before Dean's even really started on his legs, much less on shaving his armpits and his happy trail. But before Dean can consider that too much, Cas turns his head and arches an eyebrow down at him. The implication's pretty clear, without Cas needing to use words: _Are you going to get on with this or am I going to need to smack it out of you_.

So, Dean sighs and spits out what's on his mind: "Cas, would it be weird if I wanted to get laser hair removal?" His cheeks flush—get all pink and warm and feel fuller, bigger than they actually are—solely from making that admission. "I don't really know how much I'd want, or how much I could get, money-wise, but I just…" Dean shrugs and huffs gently. "Not that the removing it part isn't great and all, and not that I don't like having you man-handle my junk, but… Doing it so often's kind of a pain in the ass, y'know?"

Understatement of the year, right there. Dean might just give himself a freaking medal for how much he's holding back, in that statement. The whole process of shaving that he goes through? The shaving itself, the feeling of his smooth skin grating up on all his clothes and the uninhibited feeling of their fabrics nuzzling at him, the slow growth of stubble that turns into shorthairs that turn into thickets Dean has to cut down because he can never make enough time for this until it's a legitimate problem, rinse, lather, repeat? Much as the second step makes Dean's heart and lungs feel light in his chest, and much as he gets a warm, thick rush of satisfaction from the first day or so after shaving, he's not above wishing he could just skip the parts that involve actual work.

He's not above wishing that his skin could just stay smooth and hairless all the time. Even knowing that men aren't the only ones with body hair doesn't help Dean much because the process of taking it off doesn't make him feel any more or less feminine than his plush hips already take care of for him. He doesn't know. It's complicated. Being his own thoughts and feelings doesn't make these things any easier to understand. All Dean's certain of is how his nerves scratch and creep along his muscles when his body hair gets to be too long, too thick. And how his stomach twists and turns and makes everything about his life feel fake and wrong—all because his legs are too furry for him to really feel the denim of his jeans.

On the one hand, going out shaved runs the risk of people finding out, runs the risk of someone catching sight of an exposed ankle or getting a view past the flab on Dean's arms to see his naked pits, runs the risk of someone figuring out that Dean's swagger and his macho façade are all posturing and airs and nothing like who he really is. On the other though, going out with his body hair intact makes Dean sick, reminds him that there's always something wrong in his existence. Going out while he's playing host to forests of the stuff always leaves the back of Dean's neck itching, leaves him feeling the worst kind of nausea—the kind that hints at what it could become, sets him on edge because it could get worse or it could all be in his head, and for all the posturing it puts up, it never manages to actualize or make good on anything.

Because that's what that nausea thrives on: the pointless anxiety that it creates. The feelings are a negative feedback loop, self-perpetuating and like a constant kick in the balls over the smallest things—things that probably shouldn't even matter to Dean, except for the simple, straightforward, inconveniently unavoidable fact that they _do_.

Drawing Dean back out of his own head, back into the real world, Cas heaves a deep breath and sighs himself, making a noise like an agitated teapot, and after that, goes quiet for a moment. A pretty long moment, just going off how much it grates on Dean's nerves. His face flushes hotter and he bows his head, gives up on looking Cas in the eye, and on looking at him properly—on the one hand, this makes Dean's own double-chin pooch out more than it usually does, gives him a view of his belly protruding and resting on his thighs. On the other hand, appreciating the view of himself—of his own body and how it hasn't really gotten any smaller, any less androgynous, for all he's lost over fifteen pounds since New Year's—doesn't make Dean feel any better about how fucking long Cas takes to just answer him about this bullshit.

Though, in fairness, his nerves and his roiling, unsettled stomach probably mislead Dean more than a little bit, make him think it's taking Cas longer to answer him than he actually is.

"I have an at best tenuous grasp on social situations and the nuances of human interaction," Cas finally says, blinking up at the ceiling, then down at Dean. "I can quote Doctor Who lines without even trying to memorize them, and a major part of our shared sexuality is that we're working to get my weight up to four-hundred pounds… and you're asking me for my opinion on weirdness?"

Dean shrugs. Tries to manage a smile and, for all he can't see his reflection, doesn't feel that great about the results—to get out of looking at Cas, for fear of any off-color, judgmental expressions that could wander onto his boyfriend's face, Dean drops his eyes back to his leg and starts tracing the razor up through the cushion of white, soapy foam. His heart flutters around at the sight of the pale, hairless skin left behind, marred only by the little pink dots of his follicles. He heaves a breath and manages to hold it until he's dragged the razor up and over his knee. Pressing two fingers into his warm, soft flesh, Dean rubs them up and down his patch of cleared-off skin. Sighs like a contented house-cat from the smoothness, from how nothing impedes his ability to move his fingertips around his skin.

"Not like I ever needed you to remind me that you're weird or anything, Gorgeous," he says. "But… y'know. I just wanted to ask you, since… you're you, and the whole significant others, boyfriends, going steady thing makes me think pretty damn highly of your opinion of me?"

Cas nods and supposes that this makes sense enough, even if some parts of it still aren't coming together for him. "Not that I need you to explain them for me," he says and cards his pudgy fingers back through his hair. "I understand them logically, but there's a major count on which I'm still tripping up—not least because it's so fundamentally irrational. Well. That is, it's emotional, and thus less logical than any other input that I could offer."

"Well, tell me about it anyway." Dean bites on his lower lip to keep from shuddering as he starts up with the razor, with tracing a new path up his leg—and even with that precaution, he gets something warm shivering up his spine. "I mean it, Cas," he adds as he hits his knee agan. "If something's on your mind, I wanna know about it, okay?"

"It's hardly anything new, Dean," he says with a huff—but even if it's not new, Cas still closes up his journal and puts it on the windowsill. He still scoots around the toilet seat, belly jostling and ripples coursing through his fat as he turns himself around. He still looks Dean in the eye as he says, "I simply wish that it were easier for you. Being yourself out in the world, instead of being the person you think that people want you to be."


End file.
